


Elena

by Anonymous



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU: Role Reversal, Ernesto is the lonesome trickster, F/M, Family Adventure, Frida and Rosita are swapped because this is my fic and I'll do whatever I please, Gen, Gustavo & Chicharrón swap with Oscar and Felipe, Héctor is a (villainous) famous musician, I'll add more tags later, I'm so excited for this you guys have no idea, Marco finally becomes the protagonist he was always meant to be, Pepita and Dante swap roles, The ultimate abuelo-nieto duo, Victoria is a spitfire, and Elena is a treasure, and Franco takes Julio's place (#ElencoFTW), and if I wanna swap the rose-haired ladies then I will swap the rose-haired ladies, and no one can stop me, meanwhile Helena is the dressmaker, most character roles are swapped up, oh and Ceci takes the place of the guard lady at the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-11-23 18:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18155201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There is no Miguel Rivera who got cursed on Día de los Muertos, because there’s no Rivera family in Oaxaca – or any place in Mexico for that matter – that has banned music. Why would there ever be a music ban from a family that shares the same surname as Mexico’s star? Instead, it is a young boy by the name of Marco de la Cruz who gets cursed after being confronted with his family’s ancestral ban on music, winding up in the Land of the Dead, forced to search for his great-great grandfather. Thankfully, he isn’t alone, for he has the help of a charming rogue named Ernesto.Join him, dear reader, in this tale of music, shoes and family.





	1. The lonely shoemaker's boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dailymusicalninja](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dailymusicalninja).



> There’s this common AU that features a switch between at least two main characters, and the one I’ve seen the most is between Héctor and Imelda and the villain is always Ernesto… the only roleswap I’ve seen where it doesn’t follow this usual trope is one where he’s the deuteragonist instead, and usually that involves him being Coco’s father which further implies that he and Imelda... yeah. Still, the idea of a roleswap between Ernesto and Héctor is such an intriguing one and I like it very much. 
> 
> I also like the idea that instead of a Rivera going to the land of the dead, it’s a de la Cruz, or more specifically: Marco. You know, the boy the fandom likes to headcanon is Ernesto’s illegitimate grandkid... I don't think I've read a fic where he's the real protagonist instead of just a side man to Miguel. The only fanfic I’ve read that brings something completely new to the table when it comes to roleswaps is the one linked above. It’s still ongoing and has been a very fun read. It brings new swaps that I don’t think anyone’s considered before and I love it so much so that I’ve been inspired to do my own take on these swaps, so here it is.

A path of marigold petals led up to an altar in a cemetery, so lovingly arranged that it even had a photo on it. An elder lit a candle, and the smoke of burning copal wood began to dance lyrically upward…

_Each family is unique in their own way. Some have bloodlines that trace back to warriors from long ago, while others are descended from nobility from foreign lands or pacifists who fought for freedom with words… but mine is unique for a different reason, for something that happened long ago before I was even conceived. It’s something that’s caused me to believe that I’m cursed._

_You see, a long time ago, there was a family of three: a father, a mother and a little girl no older than three. I don’t know his name, but what I do know of the papá is that he was a musician. He would play the guitar while the mamá would dance with their hija, and they’d all sing together and reflect on the good things in their lives._

_But the papá also had a dream of his own, to play for the world. One day, he acted on this dream, leaving his home with his guitar… never to return._

_And the mamá? She didn’t dare waste her tears on that lousy, incompetent musician! She had a daughter to take care of, so after ridding her life of all music, she learned of a way to provide for her… a trade that would guarantee that there would be food on the table._

_With one small coin, she found leather, and with that leather she practiced this trade: she made a pair of huaraches, mastering in the art of shoemaking._

_I understand that she was being a pragmatist and all, but there are so many other opportunities that were completely wasted! She could have opened up a bakery and made sweets, made fireworks at a firework factory or even a sewing business so she could make sparkly boxing briefs that luchadores wear! But no, shoes are more practical… what a party pooper._

_Of course, she passed her skills down to her daughter. When the daughter became a young woman, she brought a suitor in and introduced him to the family business, and the woman then taught him how to craft shoes. Don’t even get me started on her grandkids, since they got roped in from the moment they were born. As most families get bigger, so do their businesses, and hers was no exception. Music might have torn her family apart, but if anything held them together, it was definitely shoes._

_You might be wondering, just who the heck is this lady? Well, to answer your question: she’s my great-great grandmother, Mamá Victoria. She died a long time ago, a couple of years before my father was even born, but that never stops my family from telling her story every year on Día de los Muertos…_

_And what of her little daughter, you ask? She’s my great-grandmother, Mamá Elena._

Slowly recovering in a wheelchair made of wicker was a heavily wrinkled, frail old woman with hair as white as snow, while her body was wrapped in a blue shawl.

A young boy of twelve years dressed in a blue and white shirt walked up to her, kissing her cheek. “Buenos días, Mamá Elena.”

Her eyes opened slightly, looking at him. “Good morning to you too, Franco.”

The young boy had a small smile on his face, not entirely happy.

_My name isn’t Franco, it’s actually Marco. Since she’s getting older, Mamá Elena’s memory isn’t the clearest… but that doesn’t stop me from talking to her anyway, so I tell her all that I can._

Marco pumped his arms, fists in hands as he jogged in place while Mamá Elena was merely sitting in her wheelchair, zoned off. “I used to jog like this every morning…” Then, his palms flattened. “But now I like to run like this instead, since it’s much faster!”

#

Marco, wearing a luchador mask, climbed onto the bed, raising his arms dramatically. “Damas y caballeros, our winner is… _Luchadora Elena!_ Woohoo!” He leapt off the bed onto a pile of pillows that bursted, causing feathers to fly around, onto Mamá Elena who wore a mask of her own.

#

At the dinner table, he leaned toward his great-grandmother. “For some weird reason, there’s a dimple on this side…” he pointed to the weird dimple, then at the other side of his face. “...but not on this side. Dimpled, dimpleless, dimpled, dimpleless-”

“Marco, please eat your food before it gets cold,” a woman aged sixty-nine with grey braids said as she came with a plate of enchiladas. She went to give Mamá Elena a kiss on the head, squeezing her a bit and rubbing her back.

_That’s my Abuelita Coco, Mamá Elena’s daughter. They lack resemblance, I know, but the same blood runs through their veins._

“You’re getting a little skinny, mijo,” Abuelita Coco said, noticing how little he ate. She began to pile his plate with more enchiladas. “Eat some more, or you’ll start to become a human skeleton.”

“No gracias,” Marco said with a wave of his hand. “I’m not that hungry.”

Abuelita Coco’s look hardened. “I believe I _asked_ if you wanted to have some more enchiladas?”

Marco now had an uncomfortable smile. “S-sí?” he stuttered.

Abuelita Coco laughed, then piled more enchiladas onto his plate. “Now that’s more like it!”

_She runs the house similar to how Mamá Victoria did._

Coco adjusted the photo of her beloved abuela, then whipped her head around, her brow furrowing at the sound of a hoot.

In the kitchen, Marco was idly blowing into an empty glass soda bottle. He let out a confused noise as his abuelita snatched it away.

“Sin música,” she said scoldingly.

#

Marco leaned on the windowsill, listening to the blaring radio from a Pizza Planet truck driving by.

“¡Sin música!” Abuelita Coco said a little angrier, slamming the window shut.

#

A trio of men serenaded each other as they strolled by the family compound.

“Y aunque la vida-”

Unfortunately, they were heard by Abuelita Coco, who burst out of the gate. “When will you people learn?!” she shouted. “ _¡¡SIN MÚSICA!!”_

The musicians stumbled back, terrified as they ran away.

_I’m pretty sure we’re the only family in this entire country that hates music… not that they mind._

The De la Cruz family were tinkering in the shoe shop, and the only sounds that could be heard were fabric and leather being tampered with. Marco jogged past them.

_As for me though..._

He grabbed his shine box, filled it with all his supplies and headed out of the shop.

“Remember to be back by lunch, mijo!” his mother called out.

“Okay, Mamá! Love you!” Marco called back.

_I am very different from them._

Once he was outside, the boy made his way through the small town of Santa Cecilia.

“Hola, Marco!” a woman sweeping a stoop said hello to him.

“Hola!”

He passed by a band of musicians playing a bubbly tune, pretending to play a guitar before continuing down the streets. The further down the streets he went, the more instruments and sounds could be heard, such as accordions and folkloric ryhthms blasting from radios.

Running by a food stand, Marco stopped and bought himself a fish-shaped roll of pan dulce. “Here ya go!” he said, tossing a coin to the vendor. “Have a good day!”

“You too, Marco!” the street vendor said as he caught the coin.

With all of his surroundings and the music settling in, the boy couldn’t help himself and tapped on little wooden sculptures of alebrijes. The majestic little animals each had their own tones, playing out like a marimba. He finished by smacking a trash can, causing a grey alley cat to jump off the lid. The cat stood up on her legs and pawed at Marco.

“Heeeeey, Pepita!” he laughed, glad to see the cat, whom he had known since she was just a little kitten living on the streets. He held the treat over her head. “Ahora, siéntate,” he commanded, to which she did exactly as she was told. “Abajo, danza y finalmente… give paw!”

Pepita obeyed with the best of her abilities, finishing her tricks with bumping her paw against the boy’s fist. “Buena niña!” He held out the treat to his furry friend, who ate it out of his palm. Once she was done eating, she let out a purr.

_I know that you’re probably thinking: “Hey, Marco, you’re not supposed to like music!” And I know that perfectly well, but hey, it isn’t my fault!_

Marco came around the corner, heading towards town square where vendors were selling sugar skulls and marigolds, while musicians filled the square with their music.

He decided to go to the heart of the plaza, where the statue of an unconventionally handsome mariachi stood.

_It’s his: Héctor Rivera… the greatest musician of all time._

He stood behind a tour group and their guide, who gathered around the base of the statue. “And right here, in this very plaza, twenty-one year-old Héctor Rivera took his first steps towards becoming the most beloved singer in the history of Mexico!”

_He used to be a nobody, just another man from Oaxaca who blended in with the crowd. No one knew his name or who he really was, until he started playing music at the plaza…_

In a clip of Rivera from the old days, he was a young man in a train headed for the plaza, serenading bystanders in a cart.

_Upon hearing his songs, people fell in love with him and learned more about him. It wasn’t long until he became an icon._

There came more clips, with this one being him leaping from a tree branch onto a galloping horse.

_Along with being a musician, he was also an actor. He starred in twenty-five films, had an amazing guitar- he could even fly! Well, sort of… kinda… oh, you’ve already seen the film yourself. You know what scene I’m talking about._

A clip featured Héctor dressed in a priest’s robe, held up by strings in front of a sky flat as though he were in a low budget play from an elementary school.

_And while many people debate his singing abilities, it’s agreed by everyone that he was an expert at songwriting! All of his songs are amazing, but my favorite is-_

There was a final clip of Héctor Rivera’s final performance in a fancy nightclub. He was dressed in a crimson red mariachi suit, complete with a sombrero. Like always, he had his skull guitar with him, its pearly whites shining just like his lone golden tooth. He stood at the bottom of an elevating staircase and his sides were two rows of dancing women, wearing their own festive dresses.

**“Remember me,**

**Though I have to say goodbye,**

**Remember me!**

**Don’t let it make you cry!”**

He moved up the stairs and danced, with the singers dancing and joining him in a chorus.

**“For even though I’m far away, I hold you in my heart,**

**I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart~”**

The spotlight shone on him, following him up the stairs to the center of the little stage tower.

**“Remember me,**

**Though I have to travel far,**

**Remember me,**

**Each time you hear a sad guitar!**

**Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be…”**

He winked at the audience, then passed his guitar to a man nearby.

**“Until you’re in my arms again…”**

_He lived the kind of life one would think is impossible to have… a life that one could only dream about…_

Everyone was swooning over Héctor, including a stagehand who was a little too focused on the performance to notice that he was leaning on a lever.

**“Remember me~!”**

The stagehand soon fell back, pushing the lever down, sending ropes and pulleys flying.

_Until 1942…_

In the blink of an eye, the bell fell on top of Héctor, crushing him and ending his life right then and there.

_When he was crushed by a giant bell, all thanks to some guy who couldn’t pay attention to his job… at least he wasn’t in pain for too long._

Marco let out a sigh, still gazing up at the statue with awe.

_Aside from that, my dream is to be just like him when I’m older…_

He ran through the cemetery, going up to Rivera’s little museum to peek in through the window. He caught a glimpse of his glorious guitar.

_Sometimes, I go to his little museum and take a quick look at him… and every time I do, this feeling rushes through me… that we’re linked together, somehow… it’s like, if he could be a musician, then maybe… maybe someday, I could be one too._

“If it wasn’t for my family,” Marco said as he knelt across from a mariachi. He had been polishing shoes, only to zone out as he’d been talking.

“Ay, ay, _ay, muchacho_ ,” the mariachi said, a bit of playfulness in his voice. “I came to this plaza to get a shoe shine, not to listen to a kid’s documentary about his life.”

Marco snapped back to reality, realizing he had a job to do. “Right, right.” He went back to polishing the shoes. “Sorry… I just can’t tell anyone home about this, or else I’d get into huge trouble…”

“You need to have some backbone, kid,” the mariachi advised him. “In fact, if I was in your shoes, I’d go up to my family and say, ‘I don’t care what you people think! I’m a musician and you’re just going to have to learn how to accept it!’”

“I could never bring myself to say that to them…”

“You are a musician, no?”

“I - I don’t know,” Marco stuttered, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I do play, but the only audience I have is myself-”

“Bah!” the mariachi interrupted. “Did Héctor Rivera achieve his fame by hiding his skills behind some fear? Nope! You know what he did? He went to that plaza and played for the people, and now he’s remembered by everybody!” He got an idea, pointing to a gazebo where a show was being organized. “Look over there! They’re setting up for the talent show for tonight. If you want to be like your hero, you’ll sign up.”

Marco shook his head, a thought of his abuelita holding a shoe over his head flashing in his mind. “My abuelita will _murder_ me if I sign up!”

“Okay then, well… have fun making shoes,” the mariachi said with a shrug. He saw how the boy was considering it, asking him, “What did Héctor Rivera always say? You have to do whatever it takes to…?”

“...seize your moment?” Marco finished, still in consideration.

The mariachi appraised him, then looked at his guitar. “Why don't you show me what you got, muchacho?” he suggested, giving the boy his guitar. “I'll be your first audience.”

Marco looked at the guitar in surprise. It was like he was given a holy relic. He looked at the mariachi, seeing his look of approval to play. He felt the strings, slowly raising one hand to play a chord and…

“MARCO!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve all enjoyed this, and hopefully you’ll like the next chapter too! Take care!


	2. The way of the de la Cruz family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this with chapter 1 cause I finished both in the same day, so... why not?

“MARCO!”

Marco knew that voice all too well. He threw the guitar onto the mariachi’s lap, whipping his head around to see his abuelita marching over to him. Behind her was his Tío Enrique and his Primo Abel, who both had baskets of supplies from the market along marigolds.

“Abuelita!”

“What are you doing at this place?”

“Um… I, uh…” Panicking, the boy threw his shine rag and shoe polishes into his bag, trying to pack up as his abuelita got closer and closer.

Abuelita Coco barreled up to the mariachi, hopping on one foot as she took her sandal off. “Get away from my grandson,” she growled, holding it up.

“Doña, please,” the mariachi pleaded. “I wasn’t trying to hurt your grandson. All I was doing was getting a shine.”

“You _mariachis_ think that you’re always so good with words, but you aren’t fooling me!” Abuelita Coco exclaimed, holding the shoe up to the mariachi’s face, making him back away. “What did he really say to you?”

“Nothing bad,” Marco answered with a shrug, trying to defend both himself and the mariachi. “He only offered me his guitar!”

His answer didn’t help the situation at all. Instead, it made his grandmother, uncle and cousin all gasp. “That’s disgraceful!” Tío Enrique yelled.

Abuelita Coco got on top of the picnic table, making the mariachi back away even more. “My grandson is a sweet, innocent, _darling_ little boy who would _never_ associate with the likes of you! You take your music and stay away from him!”

The mariachi scampered away, leaving Coco alone with her grandson, who she gave a big hug. “Estás bien, mijo,” she said, peppering his face with kisses. “It’s okay. He’s gone now.” She released him, allowing him to regain some air. “You aren’t supposed to be at this place! You are coming home now.”

Abuelita Coco left for home, along with Tío Enrique. Primo Abel was about to head home, but stopped for a moment to flash a smirk at his younger cousin. “You are in so much trouble now,” he teased. “Better luck next time, Marquiño!”

Marco sighed and gathered all his things. Seeing a flyer for the music competition nearby, he couldn’t help but tear it off the board and stuff it into his pocket. He followed his abuelita, catching up with his family.

“We’ve told you many times not to go to the plaza!” Tío Enrique scolded him. “When will you learn?”

“I know, Tío Enrique, I know,” Marco grumbled, rolling his eyes. Then, Pepita ambled up to him, wanting to follow him. “This isn’t the right time!” he tried to shoo her away.

“Go away! Get with you, get!” Coco chased her away, throwing her sandal at the cat.

“It was just Pepita! She’s harmless!”

Coco turned to her grandson. “You don’t name a stray cat. They might act innocent at first, but all they want to do is claw at you and your furniture… now, go get my shoe.”

#

“Guess who I found at the plaza!” Coco announced, seating Marco on a stool.

Berto let out a sigh of disappointment, turning to his son. “Marco…”

“You know the rules,” Carmen said, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder while the other rested on her heavily swollen, pregnant belly.

“The only thing I was doing was shining shoes,” Marco defended himself.

“A _mariachi’s_ shoes!” Tío Enrique cut in.

More gasps came from the family. Prima Rosa, in her state of shock, lost grip on her little machine, causing the shoe she was working on to get stuck in it, similar to how Primo Abel’s shoe from earlier got lodged into the ceiling.

“But the people at the plaza pay good money!” Marco tried excusing himself.

“How many times must we have to go over this?” Berto asked, his voice firm. “The plaza is crawling with mariachis, which is why Abuelita says no to going there. You know better than to disobey your abuela.”

“But- but what about the talent show?” Marco blurted out.

“ _Talent show?_ What talent show?” his abuelito, Julio, spoke up from behind the counter.

Marco winced, realizing he had said too much. He turned to his mother. Surely she would understand, since she grew up with music. “They’re hosting a talent show tonight, and I was wondering if I could...”

“Sign up?” Carmen finished her son’s sentence. “Well, maybe we could make an exception here.”

“Yeah right!” Primo Abel laughed, as did his sister. Tío Enrique and Tía Luisa both shook their heads as they looked at their children. “A talent show is for talented people. What can you do besides shine shoes?”

“Hey, if you get lucky enough, the shoes might start making some noises!” Prima Rosa joined in the teasing, only for the shoe to finally come loose, striking her nose and making her yelp. Abel smirked a little at this, but their fun ended as Tío Enrique called out, “Rosita, Abel! Quit it!”

“As long as it’s Día de los Muertos, no one will be going _anywhere_ tonight,” Coco stated, pushing a large bouquet of marigolds into Marco’s arms. “This holiday is about _family,_ so ofrenda room. Vámonos.”

#

Marco followed his abuelita as she pushed Mamá Elena's wheelchair into the ofrenda room, holding out the pile of flowers so she could arrange them on the beautiful altar. He pouted a little, upset about how the afternoon had gone, especially with all that happened at the plaza.

Abuelita Coco noticed his look. “Don’t look at me like that. Día de los Muertos is the only time of the year our ancestors can actually visit us and be here with us,” she explained as she pointed to the ofrenda. “Their photos are put up on the ofrenda so that they’ll be able to cross over. Remember this, because it’s very important! Without a photo, they can’t visit us!” She gestured to the offerings for each family member. “We cook all this food and leave it out for them, set out their favorite things from when they were alive out - everything that makes them happy is put up here, and you want to know why? It’s to bring the family together. I understand you’re a young boy, coming to that age where rebellion is common, but I don’t want you to sneak off to god knows where-” she stopped, looking to see her nieto heading for the door. “And where in the world are you going?”

“I thought that was it,” Marco said innocently, going back to his abuela’s side.

“Ay, dios mío…” Coco sighed and shook her head, putting a hand on her nieto’s shoulder. “To be a part of this family requires that you be _here_ for this family, so you can pass down their memories and continue where their legacy left off. I don’t want to see one of my youngest grandchildren ending up like-”

“Like Mamá Elena’s father?” Marco finished.

“We do not speak of that man!” Coco yelled, her voice loud with rage. “He’s better left unspoken of.”

Marco jumped back a little at her sudden shift in tone. “You’re the one who-”

“Shhh!”

“But-”

“Hush!”

“Papá?” Mamá Elena spoke up, having been awakened by their banter. “Papá, is it you?”

“Please settle down, Mamá,” Coco tried to calm her mother down.

“Papá has come home?”

“No, Mamá, but don't you worry,” Coco replied. “I'm here for you.”

Mamá Elena looked at her daughter. “Quien - quien eres?”

Coco felt a lump form in her throat, sadness bubbling in her stomach. Although she knew very well that the memory loss was a result of her mother getting older, it still hurt. “Rest for a while, Mamá,” she whispered to her mother, then turned back to the ofrenda. “I know I get too strict, but it's only because I care for you, Mar-” She noticed that the boy wasn't there. “Marco?”

He was nowhere to be found. Coco stepped up to the ofrenda, sighing. “I just don't know what to do with that boy,” she spoke. “I don't even know where he gets this stubbornness from…”

She looked up to the photo of Mamá Victoria, then her eyes twinkled as an idea was born. “You are absolutely right, Abuelita. That'll be perfect for our boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I’ll just list the characters’ birthdates/ages just because I think it’s necessary, especially with all that’s been switched up:  
> Marco - born 2005, aged 12 currently.  
> Ernesto - born 1896 (like in canon), died in 1921 at age 25  
> Victoria - born 1899, died in 1969 at age 70  
> Héctor - born 1900 (again, like canon), died in 1942 at age 42  
> Elena - born 1918, currently 99 years old.  
> Coco - born 1948. Julio is a year older than her.  
> Berto - born 1973  
> Carmen - born 1978  
> Enrique and Luisa - born 1975  
> Rosa - born 1998. Abel is four years younger than her (born 2002).  
> I’ll list the dead de la Cruzs ages/birthdates when they appear. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed these first two chapters! Leave a comment to let me know your exact thoughts. I love hearing what others think in general.  
> 


	3. Whatever it takes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this sooner, but my monitor kept glitching so I had to get a new one. Now that I have a new monitor, I can continue writing without random glitches popping up, so here's the third chapter!

Tío Enrique was unloading leather, wool and other things from the back of a truck. Pepita passed by him, ears pricked as she searched for her owner. She heard a faint twang coming from the roof. Being a cat, she could climb a tree with ease and slip underneath the shoe sign that covered her master’s rooftop hideout.

Marco’s body twitched and he quickly turned, letting out a breath of relief as he saw that it was only his cat. “Oh, thank god it’s just you.” He gently pat his leg, beckoning for her to come in. “Come in, Pepita. Come on.”

She came in and went over to his side. The boy was currently working on something. “You need to stop scaring me like that. I thought someone heard me.” He made sure all the strings were secure in place, before taking a marker to draw a face on what appeared to be his own little makeshift guitar, modeled after Héctor Rivera’s own guitar. “If only I had an audience. Do you think I’d make a good performer?”

Pepita moved her head up and down, nuzzling against Marco’s leg. “You’re my favorite fan, Pepita,” he chuckled. He lifted the guitar, strumming it and grinning as it was in tune. “Perfect!”

He went to the far side of the attic where he had built his own ofrenda to Héctor Rivera, complete with posters, candles, albums and songbooks. Marco lit the candles, shining light on an album cover of Héctor holding his guitar. He tried to pose like Rivera, but stopped after his smile turned out a little awkward. He grabbed an old video tape with “Héctor Rivera's best moments” and pushed it into the VCR. In a few seconds, a montage played out.

“I need to sing. I need – no, I _have_ to play,” Héctor was insisting to a woman in _A Quien Yo Amo._ “The music, it isn't just something inside of me – it's what makes me _me._ ”

Marco began strumming his guitar as more clips played.

“When you're feeling down, the best way to cheer yourself up is playing the guitar,” Héctor said, before going on to do just that, to which Marco began mimicking. “I know it works for me.”

In another clip from _A Quien Yo Amo_...

“Life is better lived by taking charge and following your heart, not by copying the majority!” With that declaration, Héctor grabbed a woman by her shoulders and kissed her passionately, making Marco wince. What was it with adults and romance? He just couldn't fathom it.

The clip moved onto another one, thankfully. In this one, Héctor was on one knee, playing his guitar for a woman during a little picnic. “Do you ever get a feeling? Like there's music surrounding you, even in the air... and the person it is playing for is you yourself. Do you feel it?”

Marco watched Rivera play his guitar, focusing so he could repeat the same exact melody.

 _“A feeling so close, you could reach out and touch it,”_ the famous musician sang outside of a woman's window. The woman opened her window, swooning at his singing. Although his voice was a little rusty in comparison to other famous musicians from his time, it had that passion inside of it – a sentimental part that was so sweet, that it was enough for a listener to overlook all the flaws. _“I never knew I could want something so much, but it's true...”_

Marco brightened more and more with each clip that played.

“Don't give up, sister,” said Rivera, playing a priest in _Nuestra Iglesia._ “Have faith, and he will listen.”

“No, he won't!” the nun cried in distress. “He didn't listen to me before, so why would he start listening to me now?”

“With music, he _must_ listen!” Héctor exclaimed determinedly, pulling out his guitar. _“Only a song, only a song has the power to change one's heart...”_

Marco's eyes closed, focusing on strumming his guitar. With each note that he played, with each melody sung, he dived deeper and deeper into the musical atmosphere, fully immersing himself within it.

“And the lesson, queridos niños, is to never underestimate the power of music...”

Marco's melody was identical to the one Rivera played by now. He wasn't even really focusing on the film clips or their plots as all of his attention was centered around Héctor Rivera and his sweet, sweet music.

“But my father, he refuses to give his permission,” poor little Lola cried in distress and dismay.

“To hell with asking for his permission!” Héctor exclaimed, never giving up his hopes. “When there's that moment in your life, you can't just throw it away! You have to _seize it_!”

Marco paid close attention as the tape came to its end, with one last clip playing out: an interview.

“Tell us, Señor Rivera, what did it take for you to seize your moment?” asked an interviewer.

“Well, I didn't start a career by doing nothing,” Héctor answered with honesty, truth in his tone. “I had a dream and obviously, it wasn't going to be just handed to me on a silver platter. It was up to me to do whatever it took to grab my moment, secure it in my grasp and-”

“And make it come true,” Marco finished, amazed and inspired by the man's words. The film ended with static, leaving the boy in silence.

He reached for the flyer for the plaza's talent show. “No more keeping it a secret, Pepita,” he said optimistically, now reaching for his favorite blue hoodie. “I have to seize my moment. I'm playing at the plaza, no matter what!” 

#

It was sunset now. Children ran by with their fire crackers as Abuelita Coco opened the doors to the family compound. “At long last, Día de los Muertos begins!”

In the courtyard, the three year-old twins, Manny and Benny, were scattering petals on the ground very messily. This left Carmen with having to correct them, setting an example by creating a pristine, steady path from the ofrenda room to the front gate. “The path has to be clear,” she explained. “They are what guide our ancestors home. If you leave them all around the place like toys, then our familia will get lost. We want them to come visit us, sí?” Her nephews nodded. “So, we must make sure the path isn’t messy then.”

As his mother taught his younger cousins, Marco snuck across the roof with his guitar in tow along with Pepita following him. He grabbed a pipe and slid down to the ground outside the yard.

He would’ve gone straight to the plaza, had it not been for his papá and Tío Enrique rounding the corner, carrying a small table from the storage room.

“Mamá,” Berto called out to his mother, “where do you want the table to go?”

Marco and Pepita backed up to avoid his father and uncle, only to see Abuelita Coco dusting a window behind them, her back turned to her grandchild. They backed away into the courtyard before any of the three adults could spot them.

“In the yard. Where else would you put it?”

“Do you want it down by the kitchen too?”

“Yes, and put it next to the other table.”

Marco made a break for it, rushing into the ofrenda room. Feeling like a rabbit cornered by foxes, he pushed Pepita under the table, stashing his guitar there as well. “Now _stay under,_ okay?”

“Marco!”

He straightened up, noticing that the doorway of the ofrenda was darkened by three figures: his parents and abuelita. “N-nothing!” he yelped, holding his hands up and grinning nervously.

The three stared at him, before Berto spoke up, “Marco, your Abuelita had the most _maravillosa_ idea! After thinking long and hard about it, we've all decided...” His mother grabbed an apron and gave it to him, to which he grabbed it and hung it over his son's shoulders. “It's time for you to join your family in the workshop!”

Marco looked at the apron in shock. “ _¡¿Qué?!”_

“No longer will you have to go out and shine shoes,” Berto went on, smiling keenly. “Every afternoon when you come home from school, you’ll be making them!”

Abuelita Coco went over to Marco, all giddy and prideful. “Our little Marqui-ti-ti-ti-to is finally picking up on the family tradition on Día de los Muertos! Our ancestors are going to be so proud of you, I just know it!” She gestured to the ofrenda, starting a photo of a young woman. “You’ll make boots just like your Tía Imelda did.”

“And huaraches like your Papá Franco,” Berto added, gesturing to a photo of a dark-skinned man holding the traditional shoe in hand.

Marco turned away from the ofrenda, moving away from the three. “But- but I’ve never made shoes before! I don’t even know if I’m ready for this sort of thing!”

“Ah, Marquillo,” Berto laughed, his shoulder swaying. “You’re a member of the de la Cruz family, and a de la Cruz is always…?”

“A shoemaker, first and foremost,” Marco finished glumly, looking down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with his father. He didn’t want this, but knew that he had no choice.

“Ese es mi muchacho!” Berto beamed, hugging his son. He let go of his son, ruffling the boy’s hair before leaving the room as he called out to his younger brother, “Enrique, bring out the coke, margaritas and sangria! I want to make a toast!”

Carmen quickly kissed her son’s head, then followed after her husband while carrying some marigolds. Abuelita Coco cupped her nieto’s cheeks and said proudly, “You’ll be a fine shoemaker, just like your Mamá Victoria was.” With that, she finally left, leaving Marco alone to think about it all.

He let out a sigh, before turning as there was a sudden noise. There at the bottom row of the ofrenda was Pepita, nibbling on some food left for his mother and aunt’s side of the family. “Pepita, stop eating the mole! It’s not for you!”

He grabbed Pepita and tried pulling her away from the ofrenda, but her claws instinctively stuck in the fabric as she kept lapping at the treat. The table and all of the photos on the ofrenda shook, until the boy was finally able to yank the cat off, tearing a piece of the cloth off and falling back during the process.

The table’s shaking didn’t cease yet though. Marco looked up, gasping as he saw Mamá Victoria’s photo frame sway forth. He tried to catch it, but it slipped from his hands and fell to the ground with a loud shatter. “No!” He put his hands over his mouth, quickly making sure no one saw before picking up the photo. “Oh no…”

He looked at the photo of Mamá Victoria and baby Elena, before noticing that there was a flap hanging. Filled with curiosity, he lifted it up and saw that the man whose face had been ripped off was holding a guitar, and not just any guitar but-

“Héctor Rivera’s guitar…?” Marco whispered, eyes widening. “But how-”

“Pa- papá?” a gravelly voice interrupted.

He turned to see that Mamá Elena had woken up and was pointing a crooked, wrinkly finger at the picture. “Papá?” she repeated.

Marco went over to her, holding the photo up. “Mamá Elena, is your papá… Señor Héctor Rivera?”

“Papá!” she cried out, pointing to the photo. “ _Papá_!”

#

Marco quickly went to his secret ofrenda, picking up the record album of Héctor Rivera. He had to know for certain whether or not it was true, so he compared the guitar on the cover to the one in the family photo. To his delight, it was an exact match.

“Haha!” he laughed, full of jollity. His idol, Mexico’s most famous musician, was his great-great grandfather.

He was so happy that he ran to the roof, standing high above the courtyard while he held the photo in one hand and his guitar in the other. “Papá, Mamá!” he called out, getting his parents’ attention. “It’s him! I’ve found out who my great-great grandfather is!”

“Marco, get down there before you fall and hurt yourself!” Carmen called out.

“Mamá Elena’s father is Héctor Rivera!” he exclaimed.

“Héctor _who_?” Berto asked, befuddled by his son’s words. “Mijo, what are you even talking about?”

Marco tore his apron off, throwing it aside as he struck a pose with the guitar. “I’m going to be a musician!”

#

Marco bit his fingernails as his guitar was thrown to the ground, along with all of the Rivera merchandise he had collected over the years.

His whole family was gathered in front of him, with Abuelita Coco being the one to interrogate him, “Tell me, Marco, just what are _these?_ Have you been having private affairs under the nose of your own familia?”

“He’s been sneaking away to the plaza so much, that he’s forgotten what the word ‘no’ even means!” Tío Enrique exclaimed.

“He spends so much time surrounded by musicians, to the point where his head becomes filled with insane delusions!” Tía Luisa added, siding with her husband like always. It was easier to go with the flow rather than side with the nephew who rocked the boat, risking her relationship with her husband and mother-in-law.

Marco was quick to defend himself, having had enough of his dreams being shot down: “It isn’t a delusion!” He gave the photo to his father. “The man in the photo was Héctor Rivera, Mexico’s greatest musician!”

Berto took the photo and examined it, then shook his head. “There’s not much about this man, except for the fact that he _abandoned_ his wife and daughter,” he spoke sternly. “This is not the future I envisioned for my son.”

“But Papá, you say my family is supposed to guide me,” Marco pointed out, getting irritated. He was getting tired of having to fight for something that was free for the rest of the world. “Well, Rivera is my great-great grandfather, which makes him _family!_ Music is in my future - it’s meant for me!”

“ _No!_ That man’s music only led to disasters!” Abuelita Coco disapproved. “I forbid it!”

“Why won’t you just-”

“ _Marco_ ,” said Carmen warningly, holding one hand over her bump while the other was pressed against her back.

“Listen to your family, mijo,” Berto said, trying to end the argument quickly. “There will be no more music, no plaza - _none_ of it. End of discussion.”

“Can’t you at least listen to me play?” Marco pleaded, picking up his guitar. Before he could even get the chance to play a note though, his instrument was snatched away by his abuelita.

“Do you want to be forgotten and left off the family ofrenda?” Abuelita Coco asked, holding the guitar far from him as he tried reaching for it. “Because that will be your fate if you choose his path!”

At that moment, Marco finally snapped, “I could care less if my photo is on the maldito ofrenda!”

The whole family gasped at his words. Coco looked stunned by his words, but then her gaze hardened as she looked at the guitar. She raised it high into the air, then smashed it against the ground until it was nothing but a pile of broken wood. If breaking the instrument meant that her grandson would be spared from her abuelo’s fate, then so be it. The family had enough tragedies as it was in the past, no need for more.

“There. No guitar, no music and no more defiance,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron.

“No...” Marco muttered, an upset, broken look on his face. All of the hard work he had put into making that guitar, all that time he spent playing it and trying to perfect his skills with rhythm… the symbol that had represented the years of work and dreams was destroyed. It was all over, just like that.

His abuelita turned to him, her gaze softening quickly. “Aww, there, there…” She started to reach out to him, putting a hand on his cheek. “You’ll feel better once you celebrate with your family.”

Her words did nothing to soothe him though as he was broken beyond repair. He felt so angry, so hurt, so _cheated…_ and he was sick of it. He was sick of being silenced to his family, so much so that his rage boiled over.

“ _I’D RATHER DIE THAN BE IN THIS FAMILY!”_ he shouted, moving away from his abuelita’s touch. He snatched the photo right out of his papá’s hands, running out the front gate.

“ _Marco_!” he heard his papá call out, but didn’t look back. He wasn’t going back, not when it meant having his dreams shattered again.

He said he'd play at the plaza no matter what and he was going to stickto that word, even if it cost him his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried getting a little more divergent here, especially with Héctor and Marco. I hope I did good, especially with Marco since I wanted to point out that he's not just Miguel but in blue and a different name.  
> Oh, and as for Marco saying "maldito" aka the spanish equivalent of "damn": a lot of kids cuss in front of their family, especially 12 year olds, and trust me when I say that there are a lot more words in spanish that are crude compared to that.  
> Anyway, hope you liked this chapter and the next one will be out soon. Take care!


	4. Cursed

Marco wiped tears of frustration away with his sleeves as he raced towards the plaza. His family could call his name all they wanted, but he wasn't going back - not now, probably not ever. He was going to sing and play at the plaza no matter what it took, and that was that. 

When he came to the plaza, he didn’t waste a second in approaching the manager at the gazebo. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if I could sign up for the talent show?”

“Got an instrument?”

“No, but I could always borrow a guitar-”

“You gotta bring your own instrument.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Get yourself a guitar and I’ll put you on the list, okay?”

Marco was distraught. He went to approach any musician he could find afterwards, but the answers he received were far from solving his dilemma.

“Sorry, muchacho.”

“No.”

“Get outta here, brat!”

Downcast and crestfallen, Marco walked away towards the statue of Rivera. “Abuelo… ¿qué debo hacer?” he asked, seeking for advice, to which he received no answer. His eyes looked down, falling upon a plaque that read _do whatever it takes and seize that moment!_

His gaze then shifted to the photo in his hand. He moved the flap with his thumb, revealing the guitar. He had to do whatever it took to seize his moment, and it technically wasn’t stealing if the guitar belonged to his great-great grandfather… right? He would only be borrowing it for tonight anyhow, and in the morning he’d return it and… well, what happened next all depended on how his plan worked.

#

At the local cemetery, there was a sea of candles and flowers, families gathered at graves and at the top, Rivera’s museum, where his tomb was.

Marco snuck through the cemetery, trying to go unnoticed by slipping from shadow to shadow. Pepita suddenly came rushing up to him, meowing.

“No, Pepita, keep it down! _Shhhh_!” he tried to get her to shush. He quickly swiped a small bell from a nearby grave, chucking it far off. Naturally like any cat, Pepita went after the toy.

The boy snuck up to a window, looking inside. Inside, there was the famous guitar, hanging above the crypt. “Perdóname,” he muttered, before slamming his elbow into the window, causing the lock to pop off and the window to shatter into small shards of glass. He fell to the ground, having to pluck a few shards from his hoodie and jeans before he then stood up.

Marco walked past a few paintings and scriptures engraved in stone, towards the crypt. He climbed on top on it, coming face to face with the guitar and his idol’s photo. “Señor Rivera? I hope you don’t mind me being here… my name is Marco, and I’m your great-great grandson. I… I really need to use your guitar.”

He felt like his heart jumped up from his chest, crawling up through his throat as he grabbed the guitar. Unseen by him, some marigolds began to glow. “My- _our_ family holds onto the belief that music is some sinful thing,” he continued. “They don’t understand me; never have, never will… but you would have. I just know that you would’ve told me to take charge and live my life freely… to do what it takes to seize my moment!” He got off the crypt, taking a few steps back. “So, if it’s alright with you, I’m gonna use this guitar and follow my heart by playing in Mariachi Plaza!”

With enough credence in himself, he gave the guitar a good strum. A harsh breeze blew by him, carrying a bunch of marigolds with it, ruffling his hair. He stopped, taken back. What was _that?_

Flashlights suddenly shined through the window, then followed by voices.

“¡La guitarra!”

“The window’s broken!”

“Somebody must’ve broken in and taken it!”

Marco backed up against a wall, ducking away from the lights. He breathed in and out, trying to think of a plan to escape without anyone noticing him.

Keys jangled and the door unlocked, with the museum’s guard entering the building. “Alright, where’s the wise guy who thought he was gonna be robbing Rivera’s tonight?” he yelled. “Show yourself, you cowardly hyena!”

Whelp, he was screwed.

He set the guitar down. “I swear that this isn’t as bad as it looks. The guitar’s my inherit-” he stopped trying to explain as the guard stepped right through him.

“Must’ve ran off,” the guard said, picking up the guitar and shining the flashlight on the crypt. “Not a single trace of him…”

Marco looked at his hands, seeing some sort of glow around them. Freaking out, he left the museum as more people came in. He tried reaching for a woman’s wrist, but his hand phased right through… and then, a man walked right through him.

Panicking, he ran through the crowd. Why was he glowing? What-

“Marco!” his mamá called out, her voice music to his ears.

“Marco, please, come back!” papá’s voice followed soon after.

A small wave of relief came over him and he ran into their arms, only to go through them and trip, falling into an open grave.

“Dios mío! Little boy, what are you doing down there?” asked a woman, concerned as she reached into the grave. “Here, grab my hand and I’ll pull you up.”

He did exactly that, taking her hand and allowing her to help him get out. He dusted some dirt off his jeans. “Gracias, yo-” he stopped as he saw her lift her head, revealing that she was a skeleton.

They both screamed, making Marco fall back against another skeleton, who looked down at him in irritation. The look on his face sent the boy running, making him bump into a woman in green who looked just as annoyed, then another man whose head fell into his hands.

“¿Que te pasa?” the head grumbled.

“Yikes!” Marco yelped, tossing the head back to the body’s arms. He tried to get away, only to find himself surrounded in an ocean of skeletons. He raced away from them to an area of the cemetery where there weren’t too many skull-faced beings, hiding behind a grave.

He placed his hands on the head of the tombstone, slowly pushing himself back up on his feet to have a peek. There were couples dancing, others collecting items and even grandparents looking after their grandchildren… all of the skeletons seemed so- so _happy._

And he… he could _see_ them.

Marco breathed in and slapped his face a few times, trying to wake himself up from this bizarre, slightly terrifying fever dream, but to no avail. He looked at the palms of his hands, at the strange glow around them, similar to those of the skeletons.

Just like them, no one could see, hear or touch him… but why? What did this mean? Did he do something, what happened, what-

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt something press against his leg. He looked down, breathing in relief when he saw that it was Pepita. “Pepita! Oh, thank god, you’re here!” He picked her up, and she nuzzled into his chest. “And you can see me, too… huh.”

The stray cat purred, then her ears twitched, making her jump out of Marco’s arms and run through the yard. “Pepita, wait!” He went running after his cat, trying to keep up with her. “Slow down, girl! Where are you even going? Pepi-”

The boy had run so fast that he didn’t even realize there was a skeleton man in front of him before it was too late. “Ay, perdón!” he apologized quickly, getting on his knees to rearrange the small man’s bones, as well as fetch his cane. “I didn’t mean to- I just- I-”

“Marco?” the short man asked, his head popping up.

Two skeleton women turned, both surprised. “Marco?”

Marco watched as the bones rattled, moving over to the head and rearranging themselves into a full body. “You’re… here,” the man said as he picked up his cane. “Here as in you are _with us,_ and you can see us. How on earth…?”

Marco shrugged, confused. “I have no clue…”

One of the skeleton women – the one in an orange, yellow and pink Tehuana dress with roses in her hair and a unibrow, to be specific – pulled him into a hug all of a sudden. “Oh, our little Marqui-ti-ti-ti-ti-to!”

“Um, I hate to sound rude but who _are_ you people?” Marco choked out, his voice a little muffled.

“Don’t you remember your own family?” the woman asked, letting go of the boy. “Well, then again, most of us died before you were even born.”

Marco looked at her carefully, an image of his great-great-aunt flashing in his mind. This woman wore the exact type of clothing she did, which meant one thing: “Tía… Frida?”

Frida smiled at this. “Ah, so you _do_ remember! Yes!”

Marco looked to the short skeleton man, an image of his great-grandfather surfacing within his memory. The shape of his skull was similar to those of indigenous folks in Oaxaca, which his great-grandfather was. Not to mention, the traditional hat, the white shirt and his brown pants… and the cane, which reminded him of the time Abuelita had told him how he started using it due to his one weak leg. “Papá Franco?”

Franco managed to smile and wave. “Why  _hola,_ mijo. Glad to see you’re catching up.”

Finally, he looked at the second woman, who was adjusting the man's back. Her formal dress was purple with frill designs around the chest area and the long skirt, the edges having dark purple embroidery with a floral design. A brown apron was wrapped around her waist with the letters “DLC” marked on the pocket, and she wore a purple choker. Her hair was pure black, tied into a braided bun with purple ribbons and her face was serious, formidable… just like the young woman in the photo on the ofrenda, his abuela’s older sister. “Tía Imelda?”

Imelda had a hand on her hip, while she poked Marco’s cheek with the other. “Well, you’re not dead,” she stated. “But that doesn’t explain the glow…”

“Maybe he’s in limbo?” Frida suggested, only for it to be shot down as a girl ran through Marco. “…or maybe he’s some type of ghost.”

“Looks like we’ll need Mamá Victoria’s help, if we’re ever to fix this,” Franco stated. “She always knows what to do in these kinds of situations.”

“Oye, muchachos!”

Suddenly, two fraternal twin skeletons came running up to the four, huffing.  The first one was just an inch taller than Franco and he wore a light blue shirt with a purple vest, along with a purple hat and pants and a striped scarf. The second was about Franco’s height with a big cowboy-like hat, white shirt and blue pants.

“It’s Mamá Victoria,” the second one started.

“She couldn’t make it across the bridge!” the first one finished.

“She’s gotten bogged down there-”

“On the other side of the bridge! She sent us here to inform you about her predicament!”

Marco squinted, pictures of his fraternal twin great-great-great uncles flashing in his memory. Gustavo had always dressed in clothes that seemed ahead of his time, and was full of youth even in his late forties… meanwhile, Chicharrón was always the shorter of the two, and age didn’t do him much favors either. What the twins did have in common though was their energy and how they finished each other’s sentences sometimes. “Tío Chicharrón? Tío Gustavo?”

The twins both smiled at him. “Ah,” Gustavo said, waving a little at Marco. “Hola, Marco.” Then, he and his brother both gasped at the realization that the living boy could see them. “Marco?! What are you- how- why-?!” Chicharrón sputtered in bewilderment.

Imelda turned her gaze on her great-nephew. “Marco, what did you do?”

Marco was huffy by the way she placed the blame on him. “What did _I_ do? Excuse-”

“If Mamá Victoria isn’t able to come here…” Frida cut him off.

“Then we’ll just have to go to her,” Franco decided, grabbing Marco’s arm.

The family began to rush through the cemetery, led by Pepita who ran ahead. They weaved through graves, rounding a corner. Marco’s eyes fell on the marigold bridge right before them.

His family passed through some type of fog onto the bridge, their ghostly forms becoming more solid, more… corporeal. He shuddered, hesitating as he felt his hand touch the weird aura surrounding the bridge.

Franco noticed how his great-grandson hesitated. “It’s alright, Marco,” he assured him, gesturing his cane ahead. “Come, come… it doesn’t hurt at all.”

Marco took a step forward, entering the veil. The petals glowed underneath his sneakers with each step that was taken. He bent down to scoop up a handful of marigolds, tossing them up into the air and watching with awe as they were blown away by the wind.

And then, Pepita went running off, meowing in a way similar to a child at an amusement park. “Pepita, ¡espere!” he called out, running after her.

The cat came to a stop, stretching out on some petals. Marco fell to his knees beside her. “You shouldn’t run off like that, girl,” he said to her. “You don’t even know… where…” he couldn’t finish as he looked up, seeing the Land of the Dead’s city. It was so magnificent, so colorful, so- so _spirited_.

“So this isn’t some weird fever dream, then,” Marco remarked, just as the rest of the family came up to him. “The whole family’s out there…”

“Did you really think we weren’t?” Tía Imelda asked, having heard his comment.

“Well, yeah, but…” Marco shrugged his shoulders, like how most kids would do when processing something they thought was fake. “I thought it was another one of those made up things – you know, the stuff adults tell kids about, like those herbal insomnia pills!”

Imelda squinted at him, then rolled her eyes. “Marco, valerian pills are a real thing that people take to cure their sleeping issues,” she replied.

“Well, now I’m thinking you might be onto something there,” Marco said, still weirded out as they moved forward.

There were skeletons crossing the bridge from all directions, both young and old of all shapes and sizes. Some of them gave him strange looks like he were a clown, while others screamed at the sight of him, which led to him having to put his hoodie up in order to avoid freaking out any more people.

High, high up in the sky were mysterious colorful creatures, flying and soaring through the air. The shapes of their bodies eerily reminded him of-

“Oh my gosh… are those- are those _alebrijes?!”_ he cried out. “But I thought they were-”

“Yup, they’re real alright,” Tío Gustavo interrupted. “Ya see, here, they’re spirit creatures…”

“Mighty guiders of wandering spirits!” Tía Frida explained.

“Make sure you keep your prized possessions in your pockets,” Tío Chicharrón advised, swatting at a coati alebrije. “Some love to take things, and there’s no telling if you’ll get them back or not… trust me, I’ve had a fair share of experience with this one coyote and my lasso.”

They made it to the edge of the bridge, where the department for re-entries and departures was. A woman’s voice came over the intercom: “Welcome back to the Land of the Dead, dear travelers! Please have all offerings ready for re-entry. We hope you’ve enjoyed your visits and the holiday!”

“¡Bienvenido!” an arrivals agent greeted a traveler. “Anything to declare?”

“Some churros from my family,” the traveler said. Behind him, there was a long line of people carrying in dozens of offerings such as breads, pinatas, alcohol, fruit, seashells and much more.

Marco and his family got up to the end of the line. He looked around, his eyes falling on a gate with a sign that read _departures._ A pair of skeletons exited with a guard nearby tipping his head to them, gesturing his hand as if he were telling them to enjoy their night.

“Next family!” called the departures agent, a woman with curly red hair named Cecilia.

Marco watched a couple in their fifties step in front of a camera-mounted computer monitor. The monitor scanned their faces, letting out a ding as their ofrenda photos were shown. It was strange, but it did make his abuela’s comment about putting photos up more clear.

“Your photos are on your son’s ofrenda. Have a good visit,” Cecilia wished the couple well as they caught up to the rest of their family.

“And remember to be back before sunrise! Enjoy your visit!”

“Next!” Cecilia called out for the next traveler.

A skeleton man with a smile full of braces stepped up to the monitor.

“Your photo’s on your dentist’s ofrenda,” said Cecilia, trying not to wince at the amount of braces in the man’s mouth. “Have a good visit.”

“Grashiash!” Juan Ortodoncia thanked her, before going off to visit his dentist.

“Next,” Ceci called, now sounding a bit tired.

One skeleton caught Marco’s eye, grabbing his attention more than the others, even getting him a little excited as it seemed to be none other than the famous painter, Rosita Muñoz, dressed in her usual pink dress with a blue shawl.

“Sí, soy yo, Rosita Muñoz,” said the skeleton. Marco’s excitement faded as he heard the voice. It sounded nothing like a woman, but rather a man of at least twenty-five years. “Let us skip the scanner. My photos decorate so many ofrendas that just one scan will overwhelm your gizmo-object.”

The monitor scanned him, making a red ‘X’ flash on the screen followed by a negative buzz. “Seems like none of your photos have been put up, _Rosita_ ,” Ceci said, knowing the actual identity of the skeleton.

“So, when I said I was Rosita a few seconds ago?” the skeleton asked as he removed his disguise, shedding the wig and dress to reveal his actual appearance and clothing. Despite being in his mid-twenties, he had quite a muscular and slender build. He wore a white vest with torn sleeves, black pants with a couple of holes in them, a blue bandana wrapped around his neck and no shoes. His bones were looking a little yellow and worn out, compared to the white, healthy bones of all the other skeletons. The only part of him that wasn’t a complete mess was his hair, which was neatly combed. “I… was lying, but I’m sure you understand why.”

“¡Ya lo sabía!” Ceci exclaimed, now fed up. “But for god’s sake, we go through this every single year: no photo on an ofrenda, no crossing the bridge! So would you please step aside so the next person can come forward? I gotta scan over twenty people before sunrise and you’re holding up the line!”

Ernesto winced at her tone, then glanced at the exit. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he started. “How about I just run by? It’ll save you time.” He gave a charming, sheepish smile before bolting for the bridge.

“Hey!” the other guard cried out as he was pushed aside.

“Haha!” Ernesto laughed triumphantly, pushing past a few folks as he ran towards the bridge. He came to it at a sprint, only to sink right into the petals. “Casi… allí…” he grunted, trying to swim through the sea of marigolds. “Just… a few more steps, and…”

“Alley-oop,” the second guard said as he came right over, pulling him out and dragging him back to the Land of the Dead.

“Alright, I can take a hint,” the vagabundo muttered as he was being dragged away. “I wasn’t planning on staying too long anyway… never liked the holiday, either…” He shook his fists and shouted, “¡ _MALDITO PUENTE_!”

Marco watched as the guard dragged him away, feeling sympathy for the vagabundo.

“Oh, the poor man,” Frida sympathized, having also witnessed the scene. “I haven’t a thought of what I’d do if my photo was never put up.”

“Next!”

“It’s our turn now, mijo,” Frida said, pushing Marco in front of her.

“Bienvenido, amigos!” the arrivals agent greeted the dead de la Cruzes, who formed a group circle around the gate as the line moved forward. “Got any declarations to make?”

“A-actually,” Franco began as Marco was pushed to the front by Imelda and the twins, the boy’s hood being pulled down to reveal his alive status. “Yes, we’ve got quite a declaration to make.”

“Hola!” Marco squeaked.

The arrivals agent’s jaw dropped… literally.

#

A security guard led the de la Cruz family across a second floor bridge. Pepita happily walked alongside, while Marco looked up and saw a trolley above. Some people noticed the living boy and gasped, while others just stared.

Gustavo stared at Marco’s face in deep contemplation, weirding the boy out. “If only I’d kept mine,” he muttered, touching the spot where his nose had once been. “That, and my chori-” he would’ve finished his sentence, had it not been for his niece glaring at him, making him tremble. “Nevermind.”

At the end of the walkway were doors emblazoned with _Department of Family Reunions._ The two officers who were guarding the door leaned against them as they saw Marco’s alive face, quickly opening the doors for the family, allowing them to pass through.

Inside, there were a lot of unhappy travelers with their own chaotic cases, all of which were being dealt with by case workers.

For instance, there was one man and his family at a booth. “ _C'mon!_ Help us out, amigo… we gotta get to a dozen ofrendas tonight…”

Another case was that of a miffed wife whose husband wanted to visit his ex-wife and her family, which obviously set his current wife off. “We are _NOT_ visiting your ex-esposa's family for Día de Muertos!”

But one traveler that really caught the family’s attention was one in a far corner. They all looked to see a woman of seventy years dressed in a traditional blue and orange dress with square-framed glasses, dealing with a case worker in a rather fiery approach. “This can’t be right! I _demand_ to have a word with the person in charge!” she shouted, slamming a hand onto the table.

“Perdón, señora,” the caseworker pardoned, cringing at the woman’s tone. “But it says here that no one put up any picture-”

“My family has never, _ever_ forgotten to put my photo up on the ofrenda,” the woman cut her off, giving the worker a cold look. “For forty-seven years, they’ve always left it on the ofrenda. That malfunctioning _chatarra_ of yours just spouts out lies!” She got up on her feet and was ready to take her boot off and give the computer a good whack, when the de la Cruz family came up to her back.

“Mamá Victoria?” Franco spoke up, his voice a bit shaky.

Victoria turned around, turning her shoe on him, only to soften as she realized it was only her family. “ _Ay,_ mi familia, what a relief it is that you’re here!” she said a little more calmly, putting her shoe back on. “They don’t want to let me cross the bridge!” She shot a glare at the caseworker as she went on, “Tell that woman and her _horríble machína_ that my photo _is_ on the ofrenda, and has been there every year since my death.”

Franco fumbled with his cane. “Well, it’s just that… we didn’t get to the ofrenda. We didn’t even make it to the compound.”

“ _¿Qué?”_ Victoria shook her head, blinking in confusion. “¿Por qué? Was there an issue preventing you?”

“You could say that…” Franco turned to the rest of the family. “We bumped into, uh, a certain someone…”

Imelda and Frida stepped aside. Victoria’s eyes fell on Marco, who looked at her. A photo flashed in his mind – one of a young mother, holding her little girl on her lap, her look stoic and redoubtable. It was an instant recognition for him that this woman was Mamá Victoria, the woman who had started the family’s shoemaking legacy a century ago.

Victoria’s eyes widened. “ _Marco_?” she gasped in shock.

“Mamá Victoria,” he said with a sheepish smile, waving his hand at her.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded to know, crossing her arms.

A door opened, and out came a clerk. “You the de la Cruz family?” he asked them.

They all stared at him in silence, while the caseworker jumped back as her computer short-circuited. Turned out Mamá Victoria hadn’t been completely wrong about it malfunctioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, Marco’s journey begins! I hope this chapter was good, and that it wasn’t too much like canon. As for explaining the switches: Rosita and Frida switched because both are enthusiastic ladies with roses in their hair, and also because it was funny in my head and when I read it in the fic that inspired this one. Imelda taking Victoria's place was obvious from the get go, since Vico takes hers- which also means we get a swapped version of Imector! *throws confetti* Yaaaay. Gustavo and Cheech switching with the twins is because A. they're both fun side characters, B. the other fic inspired me, C. chorizo jokes and D. a sad switch which will be seen later.  
> A ref for Victoria's dress is [here](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/09/fb/28/09fb28df06b338b6d60a3ab05a582f29--mexican-heritage-guanajuato.jpg), in case you have any trouble picturing it.
> 
> And I don’t have much else to say here other than fun fact: Rosita’s last name is based off one of my maternal great-grandmothers’ surname, Carmelita Muñoz.  
> Oh, and as for the dead de la Cruzes’ ages:  
> Franco – born 1917, died in 1994, aged 77.  
> Imelda – born 1944, died in 1984, aged 40 (hehehe, just two years younger than Héctor >w>)  
> Frida – actual birthdate and death date (aged 47), because changing that just feels weird. Strange coming from me, I know, but listen, I gotta draw a line somewhere.  
> Gustavo & Chicharrón – born 1903, died in 1951. Cheech is the elder twin, in case anyone's wondering.  
> Anyway, hope ya enjoyed this and that you’ll like the next one too!


	5. Blessings and a new friend

“Well, the kid’s cursed,” the clerk said, having taken a good look at his clipboard, reading the report written out.

The entire family gasped. “What?! But- but _how?”_ Marco sputtered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Día de los Muertos is a night to give to the dead,” the clerk answered. “And you _stole_ from the dead, hence why you’re cursed.”

“But I’m _not_ a thief! I wasn’t even trying to steal the guitar!” Marco said defensively.

“What’s this about a guitar?” Mamá Victoria asked, looking at the boy.

“The guitar belonged to my great-great grandfather,” Marco went on, trying to excuse his actions. “Since it belonged to him, it’s technically mine too-”

“Oh no, no, no, no, _no_!” Mamá Victoria cut him off, angered by the mere mention of her husband. “We do not speak of or even mention that- _that_ _músico._ He wanted no part of this family, so he is _dead_ to this family.”

“Um, _everyone_ in this room – minus me and Pepita – is dead,” Marco pointed out, making her statement sound redundant.

Pepita hopped up onto the desk, trying to reach a plate of shrimp.

“ _ACHOO_!” the clerk sneezed. “I am sorry, but whose alebrije is this?”

Marco stepped up and pulled Pepita off the desk. “It’s just Pepita,” he replied, holding the cat in his arms.

“The alebrijes of this world can take on many forms,” Tía Frida said, gesturing outside the window to some fantastical spirit guides fluttering about. “Perhaps, she’s just not in her typical form?”

“Nah,” Tío Chicharrón disagreed, shaking his head. “That cat ain’t an alebrije. She looks like the typical stray cat you’d find lounging through a trashcan, picking out old fish bones.”

“Or a hairball you’d find on a plate of chorizos,” Tío Gustavo joked, making Tío Chicharrón and Papá Franco snicker. Tía Frida smiled a little, while Tía Imelda rolled her eyes.

“Whatever she is, I am – _ACHOOO!_ Terribly allergic to hairy animals,” said the clerk, readjusting his glasses.

“But Pepita isn’t _that_ hairy,” Marco said, finding the clerk’s allergy a little strange.

“And I don’t have a nose, and yet here we are,” the clerk said bluntly, then sneezed one final time.

“But there still hasn’t been an explanation as to why I couldn’t cross the bridge,” Mamá Victoria said, crossing her arms and tapping her foot, waiting for an explanation.

Marco then realized that _he_ was the reason she couldn’t cross over. “Woops…” He pulled out the photo from his pocket, unfolding it. “My bad…”

There were gasps from the family, including Mamá Victoria. “You snatched my photo off the ofrenda?” she screeched.

“It wasn’t on purpose! The frame fell and broke, so I put it in my pocket for safe keeping!” Marco gave an explanation in his defense. “How was I supposed to know it was like a passport to the Land of the Living?”

Mamá Victoria turned to the clerk, now frantic. “Please tell me, is there a way we can send him back?” she asked, trying to hide the panic in her voice. “I need to know.”

“Well, since it’s a family matter…” The clerk went through his manual, flipping through some pages. “The way to undo a family curse is to give him your blessing.”

“A blessing? That’s all?” Marco asked.

“Yes, all you need is your family's blessing, and everything SHOULD go back to normal,” the clerk confirmed. “But it has to be done by sunrise.”

“What happens if I don’t get it by sunrise?”

“Marco, your finger!” Papá Franco cried out, pointing to the boy’s hand.

Marco looked at his hand, seeing that the tip of his finger had already turned to bone. He became pale and almost fainted, but his great-grandfather caught him.

“Steady now, Marco,” Papá Franco said, lightly shaking him awake. “We don’t want to have you fainting on us.”

Marco steadied himself, standing up straight. The fog in his head cleared out, though the discomfort on seeing his flesh turn into bone did not.

“But not to worry,” the clerk said as he got out from behind his desk. “Your family is here, so you can get your blessing right now and be home in no time.” He searched the ground, trying to find a cempasúchil petal. “Cempasúchil, cempasúchil…” He stopped as he found one on the bottom of Frida’s dress. “Ah!” He looked up at her. “Perdón, señora. May I have this petal?”

“Why yes, you may,” Frida answered with a smile, letting out a small chuckle. Imelda squinted at this, unamused.

The clerk pulled the petal out of the hem of Frida’s dress, then handed it to Victoria. “Now, you look at the living and say his name.”

Victoria turned to her great-great grandson. “Marco,” she said blankly.

“Nailed it. Now say: I give you my blessing.”

“I give you my blessing,” Victoria repeated the words, making the petal glow between her fingers. Marco’s face lit up, but she was far from done, “I give you my blessing to return home… to put my photo back up on the ofrenda, and to make sure it _stays_ there and that its frame doesn’t break again…” The petal glowed brighter with each new condition that was added, all of which Marco nodded at. “And that you will never take a guitar into your hands ever again!” she finished firmly, making the petal surged one final time.

“What?” Marco stopped trying to reach for the petal, shaking his head. He looked at the clerk. “She can’t be allowed to do that!”

“Yes, she can,” said the clerk. “She’s your grandmother, therefore she can add any conditions she sees fit.”

Marco stared at Mamá Victoria, but she seemed firm in her ‘solution’ to the problem. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll accept the stupid condition.”

“Then you hand the petal to Marco.”

There was a slightly smug look on Mamá Victoria’s face as she held the petal out to him. Marco bit his lip, hesitating in taking the petal. When he did grab it, he was consumed by a hurricane of marigold petals, disappearing from the office and reappearing in Rivera’s museum.

He felt himself to make sure he was solid, then went to the window and look out. “There’s no spirits,” he whispered, relieved.

He would have left, but his eyes drifted to the guitar. “No more lonely nights of collecting dust on the mantle for you!” he exclaimed, grabbing the guitar. “Mariachi Plaza, here I come-”

Before he could even take two steps towards the door, he crashed into the clerk’s desk, without the guitar. The family turned, shocked to see him back already.

“Not even a minute has passed and you’ve broken your promise,” Victoria said angrily, marching towards him.

“But it’s not fair!” Marco revolted, pushing past the matriarch. “It’s _my_ life and _my_ future, not yours! You’ve already lived your life, so stop trying to dictate mine!” He knelt down and grabbed another petal, heading to his great-grandfather. “Papá Franco, can I have your blessing instead?”

He pushed the boy’s hand away with his cane.

“Tía Frida?”

She grabbed a portrait from nearby and hid her face behind it.

“Gustavo?”

He hid behind his elder brother.

“Chicharrón?”

He hid behind his younger brother.

“Tía Imelda?”

“Ah-ah-ah!” she said, shaking her head and raising her hand in dismissal. “You know the rules, Marco. Mamá Victoria’s word is _final,_ and no means _no._ ”

“Don’t make this more difficult than it already is, mijo,” Victoria spoke softly, approaching him from behind. “You either go home now, or you remain here.”

“You really hate music so much that you’d have me trapped here?” Marco asked her, irked by the fact that the ban was on full force to the point where it had a hold on even his dead relatives.

“What I mean is that I don’t want you going down _his_ path!”

An idea formed in Marco’s head. He pulled the photo out, turning away from his family to look at the faceless man. “His path…” he whispered, running his fingers over the skull guitar.

“Please listen to your Mamá Victoria, Marco,” Tía Imelda pleaded, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“She's only trying to keep an eye out for you,” Tío Gustavo told him.

“Don’t act so unreasonable now,” said Tía Frida.

Marco backed away from them, towards the door. He wasn’t going to listen and obey the rules. He was a musician at heart. “I’m sorry, but I… I’m feeling quite hungry,” he lied. “I’m gonna go grab a quick snack.” With that, he left, shutting the door behind him.

The de la Cruz family blinked, dazed by what they had just seen.

“Uh, shouldn’t someone accompany him so he can find the market?” the clerk asked.

#

Marco raced down the staircase, followed by Pepita. Once he was at the bottom of the staircase, he and Pepita huddled in an empty space beneath it. He glanced up and saw his dead relatives already looking for him, with Tío Chicharrón telling a policewoman his height. Seeing the policewoman pick up her walkie-talkie, he looked at the revolving door.

He pulled his hood over his head and tightened it, making sure only a strand of his neatly-combed hair could be seen. “Come on, Pepita,” he said to the cat as he headed out. She padded after him. “I want to be a musician, so obviously I’ll need a musician’s blessing… so we gotta find my great-great grandfather. The only problem is that I don’t know how…”

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder and whipped him around. “Hold it, muchacho,” ordered an officer. He yelped when the boy turned around, his hood loosening and showing that he was alive. “Ahh!” He frantically pulled out his radio. “I-it’s him! It’s that living boy! I found him! I found the-”

A large family passed between the two as the officer gave his report, chatty and carrying loads of offerings.

Marco quickly ran for it, hiding behind a wall. He watched as the patrolman looked around, before calling in for some backup. Before he could continue to head towards the doors, Pepita sniffed the ground and ran off to a side room.

“Ay, no! Pepita!” He went after her, into the Department of Corrections. Catching up with her, he hugged her and held her close to keep her from wandering off. “Stop wandering off like that… you’re the only friend I have here.”

“…disturbing the peace, fleeing an officer, using a fake wig…”

Hearing a part of the exchange in the nearby cubicle, Marco looked up and saw a familiar face.

“You’re joking, right?” Ernesto asked, making sure there were no marigold petals stuck on his clothes. “That can’t possibly be illegal.”

“When it’s used for a play and all, no,” the officer began, “but when it’s used to impersonate a celebrity, then _yes._ It’s _very_ illegal. You better start cleaning up your act, amigo, 'cause I’ll tell you right now: your record ain’t looking too good.”

“Amigo?” Ernesto repeated, deciding that it was time to try and con his way out of this situation. “You know, I haven’t had an amigo in a very long time…” He put his hand over his chest in mock emotion, milking the act as much as he could. “And the holiday’s been so rough for me, so I really need an amigo…” He leaned towards the officer. “And amigos do anything within their power to help their amigos, right? So how about this: you get me across that bridge tonight and I’ll do whatever you want, no charge.” He spotted a poster of Rivera near the officer’s desk. “Ah, I see you’re a fan of Héctor Rivera. You know, he and I knew each other _long_ before he debuted.”

Marco perked up at that. This guy knew Héctor Rivera? Maybe it wasn’t going to be too hard finding his great-great grandfather after all.

“If you want, I could get you a balcony seat to his Sunrise Spectacular show,” Ernesto went on. The officer turned away from him, making him grab his shoulders and continue, his voice growing desperate, “I’ve even got a backstage pass, so you could meet him. All I need is for you to let me go across that bridge.”

The officer pulled away. “I oughta lock you up for the rest of the night, but…” he paused. “…but my shift is almost over, and I wanna visit my nieces and nephews in the Land of the Living… so I’ll let you off with a warning.” He wrote a little note and handed it to Ernesto, who frowned and snatched it. 

Ernesto stopped, turning and looking at the dress. “Could I have the costume back?” he asked. “I have to return it to a friend.”

“Tell your friend she’ll have to make a new one then,” the officer said simply.

Ernesto’s eyebrow furrowed and he stormed out of the room, past Marco and Pepita. “Pinche mamón,” he muttered, crumbling up the note and tossing it away.

Marco looked at Pepita with a smile, then went after the vagabundo. “Hey,” he called out as he ran after him into the hallway. “I said _hey!_ Do you actually know Rivera?”

“Why would you even care to-” Ernesto stopped as he turned and saw a living boy in front of him. _An actual living child._ “Ay, niño, you’re- you’re _alive!”_

Marco rolled his eyes and grabbed the skeleton by his bandana, pulling him into a nearby phone booth. He let the skeleton go, the older man’s body slamming against the payphone as the boy shut the door. “Look, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t speak so loudly. It draws unwanted attention, which is the last thing I need,” he said, turning to him. “So I’ll make this quick for you: yes, I am alive, beating pulse and all, and if I’m going to get back to the Land of the Living, then I’ll need Rivera’s blessing.”

Ernesto backed up against the wall, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. “That sounds… very peculiar.”

“He's my great-great-grandfather,” Marco clarified.

“He’s your great-great _grandfather?”_ Ernesto repeated, his eyes going wide. He stared at the boy, deep in thought. Well, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Héctor had grandkids, since he and his chorizo were much loved by the ladies… but seeing a living descendant of his was alarming, to say the least.

…wait. This boy said he was returning to the Land of the Living. If he helped him out and got him to Héctor, then his photo could be put up… and then he’d be able to cross the bridge and see-

“You said you were going back to the Land of the Living, yes?” Ernesto asked enthusiastically, grabbing the boy’s sweater.

“Uhhh…” Marco pushed the door open and started to walk away, having second thoughts as he was getting weirded out by this man. “I’ve changed my mind. This probably isn’t such a good idea after-”

Ernesto quickly grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Wait, niño, listen,” he said, getting the boy to turn and face him. “I will help you, if you help me. You and I, we can lend each other a hand!”

“Alright, I’m listening,” Marco said, looking at him, then over his shoulder. Suddenly, he saw his family rushing down a staircase, with Mamá Victoria in the lead.

And she spotted him. “Marco!”

“AH!” he yelped in panic.

Ernesto smiled and extended his hand. “I am Ernesto,” he introduced himself.

“The name's Marco,” the boy said quickly, grabbing his wrist. “Great to meet ya! Now that we know each other, let’s go!” He bolted for the exit, dragging the vagabundo with him. 

Ernesto struggled to keep up with him. “Whoa! What is the rush, chamaco?” This boy was too fast, like he had too much sugar or was running from the neighbor’s dogs after agitating them.

Marco looked back at him, stopping for a moment. “I’m kind of in a hurry tonight,” he said. “Clock’s ticking, and I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Ah, I see.” Ernesto nodded. “Well then, we’d better get going.”

With that, Marco, Ernesto and Pepita continued running, disappearing into the crowd.

#

Moments later, the dead de la Cruzes bursted out from the revolving doors, all falling face first onto the ground except for Victoria. The matriarch scouted the crowd for Marco, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

“ _Ay,_ this boy is so reckless,” she murmured worriedly, knowing that he could get himself killed out there. He was too much like his great-great grandfather: headstrong, impulsive and stubborn as a mule when it came to his beliefs. “I’m going to need my spirit guide… _Dante._ ” She looked up to the night sky, put two fingers to her mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

In a second, a large colorful alebrije landed in front of Victoria. It had the head of a coyote, the body of a wolf, the tail of a kit fox and the wings of an eagle. Victoria stroked the creature’s head, then turned to the family. “Does anyone have that petal Marco touched?”

“Here!” Papá Franco moved forward with the marigold petal. His hand shook a little as he held it out for Dante. “N-nice boy…”

Dante sniffed the petal. His head darted and he sniffed the stairs, tracking the scent. Once he had it, he let out a loud howl and took to the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was fun to write for the most part, though honestly there were parts where I struggled, particularly with Ernesto because I wanted to try and still make him… well, de la Cruz, you know? As for Dante, I thought it was obvious from the start since Pepita took his place... as for his design, I just tried making him as canine as possible while adding the wings because hey, I gotta stick to the canon version somehow.
> 
> Anyway, I hope I did de la Cruz justice and that this was a good chapter for you lot. Have a good night!


	6. Disguises and disappointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter 6. Again, I can't stress this enough, but I seriously hope I'm making Ernesto not too different from his canon self, because dang, he can be hard to write sometimes. Sure, Marco's easy since he's the more reckless one, but Ernesto in the lonesome trickster role? Boy, that's a tough one.  
> But hey, at least we get to see Rosita in this chapter! :D

In a dark space underneath a footbridge, Marco was sat on a crate while Ernesto rummaged through the pockets of his coat. “Come on, I know I put them somewhere… aha!” He pulled out two cans of shoe polish, skeleton gloves and a skeletal half-mask. “Alright, now sit still, chamaco.”

Marco did as he was told, trying not to wince as Ernesto began painting the white shoe polish around his mouth. Having grown up with his family’s shoe business, he was certain that shoe polish was _not_ good for human skin, much less around his mouth… but Ernesto seemed to be mindful of that, being extra careful with his painting. “Um, where did you get the shoe polish from?”

“Being a vagabundo means you get at least a couple of things thrown at you,” Ernesto answered. “And you never know when you might need things, so I’ve kept some things… including what an angry woman happened to chuck at me.”

“And the mask and gloves?” Marco asked, looking at the costume pieces that lay on the man’s lap.

“For whenever I need material for a new costume,” Ernesto replied, then dipped his finger into the black shoe polish. He began to apply some of it to the twelve year-old’s face, but the boy squirmed and moved away from his touch. “My boy, you need to hold still or else the paint is going to smudge and the disguise won’t work.”

Marco did his best to hold still, allowing the vagabundo to continue applying the polish to his face. “That’s it,” he said, painting his neck, drawing three black lines around it. “Very good, yes… almost finished, just keep looking up…” Once he was done drawing little markings under the boy’s eyes, he grabbed the mask and carefully put it on the boy’s face, covering up the top half and hiding his ears. He grabbed the boy’s hands and slipped the gloves on, then handed him a small mirror. “Presto! Stone-cold dead.”

Marco opened the mirror, taking a good look at Ernesto’s paintwork and costume contributions. He admired the paintjob, especially his little markings, which were silver swirls. He put his hand under his chin, trying out a grin. “Muy bueno.”

“Alright, so pay attention, Marco,” Ernesto began, putting the shoe polish away. “This place: it runs on memories. If you are recalled with affection, people will put your photo up on their ofrendas and you get to cross the bridge and visit whatever living family there is on Día de Muertos.” Once he had the boy’s attention, he grabbed the mirror and shut it. “Unless you are unfortunate enough to be _me._ ”

“Your photo isn’t up, so you can’t cross the bridge,” Marco said softly, feeling sympathetic. He’d seen the guy trying to get across the bridge and though he didn’t know why, he could understand his desperateness in a way.

Ernesto nodding, looking a little sad. “Sí.” He reached into one of his limitless coat pockets, pulling out a black and white photo. “But you, my boy, can fix that.”

Marco unfolded the picture and held it up to his face. It was one of Ernesto in the flesh, taken about a century ago. He looked quite as charming and handsome as he did in life, with a warm, kind smile on his face. For some reason, there was something a little familiar about him, though he didn’t know why. “¡Muy guapo!”

Ernesto grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Ah yes, I was quite the charmer when I was alive. It’s a good things I kept my looks, eh?”

“So the deal is that you get me to my great-great grandfather, then I put your photo up after he sends me home?” Marco parroted their plan.

“Quite the intelligence you have there,” Ernesto said, applauding him. “Yes, that is the deal, but there is one minor setback: Rivera is not the type of man you can approach easily. He has such a huge reputation around here, to the point where his closest friends are other elites… the changes of a mere fan meeting him are well below fifty, and I must cross that bridge _tonight._ ” He clasped his hands together, looking a little hopeful. “So, do you have any other family members around here? I do not care if they are a distant relative or whatnot; I only ask if you know someone who is more available at this time.”

Marco’s eyes darted around uncomfortably. “Nope,” he said simply. “Just Rivera.”

“Don’t play games with me, chamaco,” Ernesto warned, raising a finger, eyeing the boy suspiciously. “If you have family back in the Land of the Living, then you surely have some family here.”

“My family just puts their photos up, never tells their stories,” Marco lied, standing up and pushing the photo against Ernesto’s chest. He knew it was wrong to lie, but he was also desperate to be a musician, so he had to get to Rivera. Besides, if he was going to work with this man, then the guy had to play by _his_ rules. “But if you can’t help me, then that’s fine. I can just find him myself. The city’s big, so there’s gotta be someone else who’ll be willing to help me. Good luck trying to cross the bridge.” As he marched out of the alleyway, he made clicking noises with his tongue, signaling for Pepita to follow him.

Ernesto looked at the photo in his hands and sputtered for a few minutes, before letting out a loud groan. This boy’s stubbornness – dios, it was like he had gone back in time and was facing his wife when they had begun courting. He needed to cross the bridge though- that, and there was no way in _hell_ he was letting a child go out there all alone- so he went to catch up to the boy, yelling out, “Alright, niño, _alright!_ I will take you to your great-great grandfather, just… take my photo, okay?”

Marco turned around, flashing him a grin. “Now _that’s_ more like it!” He took the photo and put it into his coat pocket, then began to walk with Ernesto down the busy street while Pepita trailed behind.

“You know, Héctor Rivera tends to get very occupied most of the time,” Ernesto went on, taking the lead. “He has this huge plate of work to chew through, and- why are you walking like that?”

Marco was shambling around, walking like a newly awaken Frankenstein’s monster. “Blending in and walking like a skeleton.”

“I am fairly certain that skeletons do not walk like… _that._ ”

“But you do, especially with the way your joints work.”

“That-” Ernesto looked at his feet, noticing that his joints did move in a rather bizarre manner. “…oh.” He looked at Marco, who seemed a little smug. His eyes narrowed. “Stop that,” he said warningly.

Marco stopped as his attention was snagged by something. He straightened up and ran over to a balcony, peering over to see a large billboard advertising his idol’s upcoming shoe for the night. “Wow… ‘Héctor Rivera’s Sunrise Spectacular!’ Qué chévere!”

“Ugh,” Ernesto groaned, going up next to the boy and leaning over the balcony. He felt disgusted when he heard _Remember Me_ play over the speakers, especially with the way Rivera sung it. He just _had_ to take a meaningful song and twist it. “Ever since your great-great grandfather made himself at home here in this land, he’s set up these  _bobo_ performances to mark the end of Día de Muertos.”

“And you’ve got balcony seat tickets for us, right?” Marco asked, turning to Ernesto with an eager smile. He had always wished he could meet his idol, and now he had the chance.  

Ernesto winced at this, gritting his teeth. “About the tickets, I… don’t actually have any.”

“But you said you did!” Marco cried out, hurt and annoyed.

“That might have been a lie,” Ernesto said sheepishly, a look of shame on his face. He tried flashing a charming grin at the boy. “I apologize, but I know you understand… right?”

Marco pouted, then huffed and began to walk away in the opposite direction. If this man didn’t have tickets, then how else was he going to get him to his great-great grandfather? “Thanks for the paintjob and costume pieces, but I think I’m gonna be going my own-”

Ernesto grabbed his hand suddenly. “Wait,” he said, stopping the boy. “Calm down, chico… I made a promise, so I will keep my word. I will take you to him.”

“But how?” Marco asked witheringly, as Ernesto began to walk away. “You don’t have the tickets to his show.”

Ernesto looked at him with a broad, confident smile. “I might not have tickets to his show, but I _do_ have the knowledge of the location where he rehearses.”

#

Ernesto led Marco the side of a huge warehouse, beneath some windows. He picked up a stone from the ground and swung it around a few times, before chucking it at a third floor window.

Inside the third floor was a seamstress with short black hair, dressed in blue named Helena López. She was currently working on a costume for the opening of Rivera’s show, when she heard something hit the window next to her. She turned and went to open the window, looking down to see Ernesto waving at her, with a boy and a cat standing right next to him. “I sure hope you have that dress, Ernesto!” she yelled to him.

“Hola, Helena!” Ernesto greeted her.

She lowered a ladder so Ernesto, Marco and Pepita could climb up. Marco went up first, followed by Pepita with Ernesto trailing far behind.

“Erm, hola, señorita,” Marco said, going off to the side along with his cat.

“Helena, the dress,” Ernesto began nervously, “the guards confiscated it, and I’m afraid they won’t be returning it anytime soon.”

Helena turned around, eyes wide. “ _What_?!” she cried out. “But I worked for hours on that dress, and I’ve got forty dancers to dress by sunrise for the opening number!”

“I know, Helena, and I’m sorry,” Ernesto said, trying to calm her down.

Helena sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Okay, this- this is fine,” she said, trying to keep her cool. “So I’m a Rosita short- it’s whatever. I have some spare cloth in the back, both pink and blue. I’ll… manage.”

“Helena, I-”

“It’s fine, Ernesto.”

“Helena…”

“I said it’s _fine._ ”

As the vagabundo tried talking with his friend, Pepita’s whiskers perked up and she began to wander off. Marco slipped away to go after the cat. “Pepita… Pepita!”

A man pushed a cart containing a sculpture of a dragon alebrije’s head, separating the two for a moment, allowing Pepita to run off. “We’re really not supposed to be around these parts!” he said, running to catch up with her. He walked around past several artists and props, stopping as he passed by a work station, where an old woman – Fanny Rabel, he believed – was painting a picture of a young girl sitting down with a toy in her hands.

Pepita pawed at a large costume head, only to get slapped suddenly. A cacomistle alebrije crawled out from underneath the prop, making Pepita hiss at it, to which it jumped on her head and rode her like a donkey, pulling on her ears.

“No, Pepita! Come here!” Marco said, hustling after the cat. He tried to catch her, but the cacomistle kept tormenting her so much that she crashed into several props and tables, making him crash into them as well.

The alebrije then jumped off of her, hopping on several tables with art supplies, before locating itself on its owner’s shoulder. It wrapped its tail around her next, then turned and let out its own warning towards Pepita, who was hissing in return. Marco grabbed her and held her before she could leap at the alebrije, just in time for the alebrije’s owner to turn around.

It turned out that the alebrije’s owner wasn’t just any random person, but the famous painter herself: Rosita Muñoz. “Niñito!” she exclaimed upon seeing Marco. “How did you get to this area of the building? They usually don’t allow children here…”

“Uh, well, my cat wandered off, so I-”

“Awwww!” Rosita cooed, interrupting him as she bent down to pet Pepita. “¡Qué precioso gatita! A courageous, lovely little spirit guide…” She turned to Marco. “And this niñito must be the spirit who you’ve guided to me!”

“Um, señora, I’m pretty sure she’s just an ordinary cat and not a spirit guide,” Marco commented, a little weirded out by this.

“The alebrijes of this world are shapeshifters,” Rosita told him. “So while she might not look like an alebrije now, that doesn’t mean she isn’t one. Alebrijes are cute, little creatures, but they can be very powerful too! For example, my little Che can juggle!” To demonstrate, the cacomistle snatched up some paintbrushes in its mouth and juggled them, bopping them with its nose. It was definitely a neat trick, but Pepita… Pepita was playing with an alebrije mask like it was a ball of yarn.

“I guess not,” Rosita accepted. “Oh well.” She grabbed Marco’s hand, pulling him to the area where the rehearsal was being held. “Come, niñito! I’m working on this project, and I’d like to hear your thoughts.” She sat him down on a bench. “You are a critic.” The lights went off, with the only light source being a small candle the painter was holding. “The stadium is completely dark, except for the moonlight shining down, and then… a large dahlia!”

The lights came on, revealing a large dahlia prop, blooming.

“Bailarines crawl out from the dahlia, and oh, would you look at that? They’re all dressed like me!”

The dancers turned, showing that they were indeed dressed like her, with the pink dress, blue shawl and roses in wigs. There were even some who had cotton stuffed into their costumes, so they could mimic her figure too.

“And they go to the highest branch in a tree, to pick the ripest, juiciest mangoes… and the tree is also dressed like me.”

Marco didn’t know what was more strange: the dancers that were dressed as Rosita or the tree that had her eyes and wig painted on it, because both were a rather unsettling sight bordering the edge of uncanny valley.

“And the juice is the mangoes is actually honey.” Rosita turned to him, awaiting his thoughts. “So, what do you think? Do you like it, or is it too… surrealist?”

“It’s… definitely interesting,” he answered slowly, unsure how to critique it, especially since this was the work of one of Mexico’s most famous artists. “But uh, maybe it could use a little music? What if you added something like… _doonk-doonkdoonk-doonk!”_

With her eyes completely on the boy, Rosita motioned for the musicians in the corner to begin playing, and so they did.

“And then it could go _dittleittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittledittle-ittle – WHOMP!”_

The sounds were replicated, with a trumpet and a trombone going off at the end in a sour note.

Rosita grinned, inspired. “And… what if a huge bucket of water poured down on everything and everyone, like rain? Yes, raindrops falling on everyone’s heads!” she exclaimed excitedly, much to the dancers’ discomfort. She placed a hand on Marco’s chin. “Such an inspiring, spirited little man… you’ll make a wonderful artist one day.”

Marco beamed, touched by her praise.

Rosita turned back to the stage. “The dancers leave, the music ends, the lights go out and the amazing Héctor Rivera rises to the stage!”

A silhouette of a mariachi rose from a trap door, making Marco lean at the edge of his seat in excitement. This was it, the moment of truth… he was going to meet his idol, and-

The lights went on, revealing that it was just a mannequin assembled from random fruit and scraps. It was a caricature, a dummy- it was a doll made out of junk, not the real deal. Marco didn’t understand though. Why wasn’t Rivera there? It was rehearsal, he should have been there, but he wasn’t.

“He sings the usual songs, sunrise comes, the audiences cheers and-”

Marco got up from his seat and approached Rosita. “‘Scuse me, señora, but why isn’t the real Héctor Rivera here?”

Rosita gave him a pitying smile. “Héctor isn’t one for rehearsals,” she replied. “He doesn’t like practicing around other folks. He prefers to spend his time by hosting parties at his estate.” She pointed out the window, to the large fancy tower in the distance. “That, and chatting with members of his elite friend group like Agustín Lara and Cantinflas.”

Marco walked over to the window, looking at the large building in the distance. He let out a sigh of disappointment. He felt so let down, for he thought that his idol would be at the rehearsal, but instead he was at some elite fiesta. Ernesto lied to him.

The only person that could give him his blessing without some stupid condition was far, far away. What was he going to do now?

“Chico!”

Suddenly, Ernesto came rushing in from around the corner, seeming anxious. “You shouldn’t run off like that. The least you could do is let me know if you’re going to explore the building, instead of having me all worried there, thinking you’d gotten lost,” he scolded him, sounding like a protective father for a second. “Come, no more bothering the artists and distracting them from their work…” He placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, pushing him away while Rosita went to continue petting Pepita.

Marco moved out of the man’s grasp, shooting a glare at him. “You told me my great-great grandfather would be here, but he isn’t here at all!” he complained, gesturing to the window. “He’s all the way over there, hosting some fancy little party.”

Ernesto looked out the window, his eyes narrowing. Héctor was so vain and full of himself, thinking he was so above rehearsals and any critiques from other musicians. “Ese pendejo! What man just wastes his time on parties instead of rehearsing?” he grumbled.

“If you two really do know each other from long ago, then how come you don’t have an invite to his party?” Marco asked, his hands on his hips. “Surely, he’d invite his mejor amigo.”

Ernesto looked at Marco, firing back with, “You’re his great-great grandson. Shouldn’t _you_ have an invite to his party?”

Marco bit his lip, knowing that he had a point there. “Oh- oh yeah? Well, at least I’m not a liar!” he tried arguing, though he knew very well it was a lie, since he fibbed too. Still, he didn’t like losing arguments, especially not this one since it reminded him of one of his little fights he’d have with his father.

Ernesto would have replied to that, but he knew the boy was right. He technically had lied in a way, thinking that Héctor would be at the rehearsal. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I said Rivera would be here, but he’s not.” He turned to the other musicians, specifically the one with the trumpet. “Oye, Felipe, do you happen to know anything at all about this particular party?”

“Oh yes,” Felipe replied, a look of amusement on his face. “It’s a big deal around these parts, but you have to be on this specific guest list or else the guard will throw you out like you’re an alebrije’s caquita… _cerdito._ ”

“Hey, look, it’s cerdito!” a group member called out, making the others cackle.

“Haha, very hilarious,” Ernesto said in a sarcastic manner. “ _Hysterical_.”

“Cerdito?” Marco asked, confused by the nickname. “Why are they calling you ‘little pig’?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Felipe asked, turning to him. “This man is _very_ famous.” He gestured to Ernesto with his trumpet. “See for yourself. Ask him how he died.”

“My death, it’s not _that_ interesting,” Ernesto spoke uncomfortably, wanting to avoid the subject.

“He choked on a piece of _pork_!” Felipe bellowed, making his friends howl with laughter.

Marco didn’t laugh though. Instead, he gave Ernesto a sympathetic look. Choking to death was a serious deal and he’d seen some of his family members nearly suffer the same exact fate, so he could understand why the vagabundo wasn’t too keen on talking about his death.

Ernesto was fuming. “As a matter of fact, I did _not_ choke to death,” he spoke defensively, angrily. “I died because the meat was spoiled- it was food poisoning that killed me, not choking!”

There was more laughter.

“Hey, that’s not funny!” Marco spoke up, stepping in front of Ernesto as though he were shielding him. “This man died from food poisoning, and you guys decide to turn it into a laughing matter? What kind of sick joke is that?” Both the musicians and the vagabundo looked at him in surprise. “How would _you_ like it if someone decided to joke about how you died? You would be angry too, wouldn’t you? So leave him alone, unless you want to sink lower than you already are.”

Realizing that the boy had a point, the musicians started mumbling their own apologies. Even Felipe looked at Ernesto and said, “Hey, cer- _Ernesto,_ I’m… sorry for all the times I’ve made fun of you.”

Ernesto was astonished for a moment, before frowning as the musicians turned away. “This is why I cannot stand musicians,” he said to Marco. “They are all so self-absorbed, so conceited, so… irritating! They’re a bunch of idiotas who-”

“Hey,” Marco cut him off, a little offended. “I’m a musician.”

“You are?” Ernesto asked, surprised.

“If you want to get to Héctor so badly,” Felipe spoke up, “there is a music competition at the Rivera Plaza. Winner gets to meet Rivera and play at his party.”

The wheels in Marco’s head were turning. He put his hand to his chin, contemplating over it. This was it - his only chance at meeting his great-great grandfather, getting his blessing and finally becoming a musician.

Ernesto noticed the look in his eyes, the same look his wife had whenever an idea hit her. “Oh _no,_ niño!” He placed his hands on his shoulders, trying to look him in the eye. “This is idea is the definition of madness! You are insane if you believe even for a single _second_ that-”

Marco felt his fingers through his gloves. They were thinner, harder- _bonier._ The skin on his fingers felt so light and thin, like paper. “I know, but I can’t just stand here,” he said, taking his gloves off, showing Ernesto his hands. “I need to get my great-great grandfather’s blessing before sunrise, or else I’ll…”

“ _¡Dios mío_!” Ernesto cried out, eyes wide with concern upon seeing the visible bone and see-through flesh. “We really _do_ need to get you home.”

Marco looked up at him hopefully. “Exactly, so… do you know where I can get a guitar?”

Ernesto sighed. This idea was completely loco, but the boy needed to go home or it was curtains for him. He made a promise, so he was going to keep it.

“There is a man I know who might be willing to lend his guitar…”

#

Dante flown throughout the sky and ended up landing near a tunnel. His shadow cast upon the wall as he entered the darkened corner, sniffing around for a scent, specifically his mistress’ tataranieto’s scent.

The dead de la Cruzes followed him.

“I knew it, I knew it!” Imelda exclaimed. “That Marco was a troublemaker!”

“Cut the boy some slack, Imelda,” Gustavo said in protest. “It’s not his fault.”

“He’s only twelve,” Frida defended the boy.

“But at that age, his father already knew how to craft shoes,” Chicharrón pointed out. “Hell, both of his cousins learned when they were even younger!”

“The boy didn’t grow up in our time, though,” Franco spoke up. “Back then, while music played all the time, it was easier to avoid. Nowadays, you hear it around every corner. It’s hard to ignore that, especially when the market is right next to a plaza.”

Imelda knew her father had a point, but wouldn’t concede yet: “Still, Quique’s children didn’t act this rebellious. They adjusted well enough to making shoes, so why couldn’t Marco?”

“Oh gee, I don’t know,” Gustavo spoke, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “maybe it’s because he’s going through puberty?”

“Quiet!” Victoria yelled, silencing the others. She looked to Dante, rubbing one of his front legs. “Have you found any clues yet, Dante? Anything that will lead us to our boy?”

The canine alebrije sniffed two canisters of shoe polish, letting out a low growl. His breathing revealed a footprint, which glowed red.

“It’s a footprint!” Frida cried out.

“Not just any footprint, but from a de la Cruz boot!” Franco pointed out, noticing the “DLC” written on the sole.

“It’s size seven and a half,” Chicharrón noted.

“A size fit for a young boy,” Gustavo added.

“Whoever wore the shoe must’ve had a flat foot,” Imelda spoke, “because the shoe is pronated.”

“A pronated de la Cruz boot sized seven and a half?” Victoria recounted all of the observations, smirking. “Then it’s him: Marco…”

Dante breathed once more, and the glow spread to reveal a trail of even more footprints leading out of the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.  
> This chapter turned out a little longer than I originally intended, but eh, that’s just how it is sometimes.  
> Wrt the “chico” thing: I was originally going to use “muchacho” because that’s what Ernesto calls Miguel in the spanish dub, but then I realized it doesn’t really sound intimate here, so I changed it to chico. I could’ve technically went with only using “chamaco” but I don’t know if it’s de la Cruz enough… so I guess I’ll just use it along with “niño” and “chico”, see which one sticks more. Idk.  
> And the part at the end where the de la Cruzes bicker a little is a reference to the scene in Mulan, where all the ancestors talk about her after she cuts her hair and goes off to join the army.  
> I’ve said it many times before but I’ll say it again: I hope you guys liked this chapter.


	7. Shantytown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing this, I came up with an idea as to who Marco's voice actor would be, and you know what? Antony del Rio is my choice, hands down. He's a singer and a voice actor (Chico in Metal Gear Solid, Pit & Dark Pit in Kid Icarus: Uprising and much more), and he's latino. It's a perfect fit! :D

It was painful for Victoria to go through the streets, forced to hear songs she had once danced to and even sung, before it was all shattered. Each time she searched for her great-great grandson only to find that he wasn't anywhere to be found only fueled her rage, along with her worry for him.

She could only hope he was okay, though she wondered just  _why_ Marco was even bothering with music at all. His father never showed any interest and neither did his uncle, aunt or any of his cousins care for it either. His mother, Carmen, had been born with music, true, but she gave it up when she married Berto – same for his other aunt, Luisa and even his great-grandfather, Franco. Coco and Imelda had both been curious about music when they were little, but eventually Imelda's eyes stopped wandering off towards vihuelas after she learned of her family history, as did Coco. From all of the visits she had made to her family on the Day of the Dead, none of them seemed to care for messing around with music. Honestly, if she were to pinpoint the cause for the boy's musical temptation, it would have to be Elena.

Elena… it hurt to admit it, but her hija had always been her father's bebita. During the day, he'd dance with her and twirl her around like she was a little princess, and during the night he'd sing her that song – the one he claimed was theirs and theirs alone. He showered little Elena with all of the affections he had, and she ate it all up. Even after he left, she spent days at the window waiting for him. When his things were shoved into boxes and his half of the photo was ripped off, she had screamed and cried, thinking that her mamá was giving up on papá.

Elena accepted the shoe business, but she would never accept the fact that her papá wasn't coming back or the music ban. She would go out into the plaza, trying to dance like all the other women did – it was how she met Franco to begin with.

When she got caught, there was a huge argument and hurtful things were said… Victoria could still remember the blame being placed on her shoulders, hearing her own daughter blurt out that it was  _her_ fault that– that–  _that musician_ left.

But that had been long ago, and they made up… Elena didn't dance anymore, she didn't sing once – at least, Victoria didn't  _hear_  anything – and she made shoes, so she couldn't have been the cause of Marco's rebellious nature.

How long had this been going on, anyway? It had to have been before Marco took the guitar. Had he seen the photo before, finally letting his temptation take over tonight upon seeing the guitar? If only she had ripped it out along with her hus-  _that_   _man's_  face. Look at where  _he_ got their-  _her_ grandson now.

Then again, she could see some of him in Marco. He had only inherited her nose, but from his great-great grandfather he got his neatly combed hair, his dark brown eyes, his quirks and habits… those traits had been there for a long time, and she only acknowledged it now because she didn't want to admit that in the end, he was his abuelo's nieto.

Victoria shook those thoughts out of her mind. They got her around as much as her talk with Helena had, which was to say  _nowhere._ The dressmaker recalled a young boy, and that his face seemed a little… unusual, but that was it. There wasn't much else Helena could recall about him, though Victoria felt that there was something she was hiding from her, for some reason.

#

Shantytown was a lonely, rusty old place, Marco thought as he followed Ernesto down the wobbly staircase. He had seen the poor areas of Oaxaca whenever his mother would take him with her while visiting her family. He'd seen beggars huddled near shacks, wearing nothing but rags. He'd seen rogues in junkyards, gathering around a campfire with cans of old brew as their midnight meal– he had seen those who were left behind in the land of the living and how bleak their lives were, but that was nothing compared to Shantytown…

His thoughts wandered off as he took off one of his gloves, taking a good look at his hand. The bones in his knuckles were becoming more visible with each second, and his skin was getting more transparent too. He felt nauseous at the sight, so he put his glove back on and looked at Ernesto, who led the way.

"Tell me, Marco," Ernesto started, looking back at the boy. "Why do you want to be a musician?"

Marco thought for a second. "Well," he began. "Rivera was one, and he's my great-great grandfather so…"

Ernesto rolled his eyes at the boy's reply. "Rivera was a musician, yes, but he lacked the voice of one," he replied. "The one reason people like his songs is because of the charisma he has. Without that charisma, people wouldn't be as willing to herald him as the greatest musician of all time." He nearly retched at the title, but went on, "Not to mention, the way he lived his life, squeaking like a mouse for people he never knew. He didn't sing because he loved the songs he sang or wanted other people to feel that same joy, he just sang because he wanted people to hear him."

"How is that a bad thing?" Marco asked, frowning at the man.

Ernesto looked at him in the eye. "Niño, a musician does not sing because he wants to be heard," he said, taking on a serious tone. "A musician sings because he  _feels_  the music inside of him. He sings to bring joy to others and make them feel the same thing, to reconnect people… that's what songs are made for, after all." He looked up at the sky and smiled a little, reminiscing the beautiful times of his life. "Songs cross oceans, travel through time… a song is a way of saying I love you and I miss you…" His smile turned into a frown as a bad memory from many, many years ago resurfaced – a memory that should have been a happy one, but wasn't. "It is how one begs for forgiveness."

Marco soaked in every single word Ernesto said. While there were parts he wanted to protest at, overall the vagabundo seemed to know what he was talking about despite having said he didn't like musicians. There was so much emotion and wisdom in what he said, that it made the boy start to look at things in a new perspective.

The vagabundo's gaze went back to Marco. "Do you understand what I'm saying, chico? You cannot be a musician just because you want to be like some man who threw his name around, basking in fame and glory while putting no real heart into it. If you want to be a musician, do it because you feel the music in your heart and soul- do it because you want to share that feeling."

With that, the vagabundo continued walking while Marco and Pepita trailed behind. The twelve year-old gave the man's words some thinking, before he ran ahead a little and exclaimed, "Hey, Ernesto!"

Ernesto turned to him. "Yes, chico?"

Marco skid to a stop, just right in front of the skeleton. "I thought about what you said," he began, "and… you're right, about being a musician." He fiddled with his fingers. "I – I don't want to be a musician  _just_  because I want to be like Rivera…"  _Who is not a cad,_  he added silently, but didn't say aloud since that wasn't the point. "I'm a musician because I  _love_  music," he went on, letting out all of his feelings. "Music is my life- I feel it in my heart and soul. It brings me joy, laughter- it makes me feel like I'm walking on thin air!" He gave the vagabundo a smile. "I want to share that feelings with others, let them feel the same joy I feel whenever I play a guitar… because what good would it be to hide it?"

Ernesto stared at the child in front of him, amazed by the boy's wise look on music. For a second, it was like he was looking at a different boy since he couldn't believe that it was the same boy who was just going on, raving about Rivera a couple of minutes ago. "Those are the wisest words I have heard," he remarked. "Might I ask how old are you exactly?"

"Twelve," Marco answered simply. "I'm not at the top of my class, but I do know a couple of things, especially when it comes to music."

"Well, you're the smartest twelve year-old I've ever met," Ernesto replied, nudging the boy playfully as they continued walking. "Your parents must feel very honored to have you as a son."

 _Probably not anymore,_  Marco thought, thinking of what had transpired before he got cursed. He then changed the subject, "So, how long 'til we get to this guitar?"

"Be patient, chamaco," the older man told him. "It won't be long until we're there."

Ernesto stopped as they came to the edge of the platform, instinctively holding his hand out to Marco. "Careful now, these steps are very steep. It's best if you take my hand."

Marco was about to object, but he looked down and quickly changed his mind upon realizing the vagabundo was right. He took his hand and held onto it tightly as they went down the stairs. Oddly enough, it reminded him of how his father would always take his hand whenever they headed out to the market, so that he wouldn't get lost.

When they made it to the bottom of the staircase, they let go of each other's hand. Walking under the stone archway and seeing the rundown houses along with the poorly-constructed walkway, Marco's view of Shantytown being worse than the poor areas of Oaxaca were strengthened. Still, the people there didn't seem to mind that they lived in such a poor place – on the contrary, really, as they seemed pretty happy. Some were playing music and games, while others drank more than alcoholics at a pub.

There was a particular group of male skeletons all huddled around a burning trashcan, laughing loudly. Their bones were as yellow and dusty as Ernesto's, yet that didn't bring their spirits down. When they saw the vagabundo, they all cried out: "Tío Nesto!"

"Hey, Alvaro! Ezequiel!" Ernesto grinned, waving at them.

"Ernesto!" another skeleton cried out cheerfully.

"Hola, primo!" Ernesto nudged Marco's shoulder. "Ay, these folks! Mi familia!"

"Wait, you're related to all of these people?" Marco asked, having thought that a man like Ernesto would have been completely on his own.

"They are my  _chosen familia_ ," Ernesto clarified as they passed by a few more of his 'primos' and 'uncles.' "Everyone here doesn't have a photo on an ofrenda, which means they have no family to go to… it's the life of a nearly forgotten." He shrugged. "But we have each other, so we've formed a family of sorts."

He picked up a bottle of tequila and went over to a group of three old women, who either cooed or made other excited noises as they saw him approaching. "Ernesto, my little sobrino!" one of them cried out.

"Hola, Tía Chelo," Ernesto greeted, pouring the tequila into each of their glasses.

"Muchas gracias, Ernie," they thanked him.

"De nada," he replied. "I hope you ladies are having a wonderful evening."

"We are now," one of them said, making her friends giggle.

Ernesto rolled his eyes at this, while his little friend was weirded out by the way two of the old ladies were eyeing him. He poured himself two glasses, asking: "Do you know if Oscar is around? I need to see him."

"He's in his shack," Tía Chelo answered, gesturing her glass to a house nearby. "He hasn't been feeling too good lately, but I think seeing you might make him feel better."

"Of course he'll feel better," Ernesto huffed, puffing his chest out. "I'm his Primo Ernesto! Why wouldn't he want a visit from me?"

With that said, he pushed the wooden door open, making a loud creaking sound as he entered the shack. He held the door open, allowing Marco and Pepita to walk in.

To say the place was a total mess was an understatement of the century. The inside looked as though a hurricane had come in with the way piles of wood were lying around, along with some little inventions, tools and other gadgets and gizmos. Marco even tripped over one of the inventions- a bicycle with instruments and little wooden sculptures attached to it.

Ernesto came to a couch with a bunch of instruments and tools lying on it, spotting a bowler's hat on top. "Buenas noches, Oscar," he said, lifting up the hat to reveal a man underneath it, who looked  _very_  similar to Felipe.

"Buenas noches, Ernesto," Oscar returned the greeting, smiling slightly.

"¡Feliz Día de los Muertos, mi amigo!" Ernesto exclaimed, then held up one of the glasses. "I got an offering just for you: a glass of tequila, for a toast!"

Oscar looked at the glass, then back at his friend. "Ernesto, what are you trying to get at here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He had known the vagabundo since the very night he arrived in the Land of the Dead, so he knew his antics well enough by now.

"Oscar, my friend and I, we have to borrow one of your instruments," Ernesto cut to the chase, gesturing to Marco, who hung back along with his cat.

"One of my instruments?" Oscar asked, holding his trumpet close to him. "It better not be my trumpet, or else I'll-"

"I meant the guitar," Ernesto said, tapping the head of the instrument in question. "It's only for a contest. Once we win, it will be brought right back to you."

"But why do you need it for a-"

Before Oscar could finish his question, his body became weak as his body flickered with gold. He fell back against the couch, letting out shaky breaths.

Ernesto rushed forward in concern, while Marco was taken back by this, watching in curiosity.

"Are you alright, primo?" Ernesto asked, placing a hand on Oscar's arm.

Oscar's grip on his trumpet loosened. "I'm – I'm going to fade, Ernesto," he whispered. "I can feel it. I just  _know_  that I'm going to die again." He looked at the guitar. "I've never been big on playing stringed instruments in the first place. I only kept that thing because it reminded me of- of-" he stopped, choking up sobs.

 _Die again?_  Marco thought, those words echoing through his mind. No, that couldn't be right. He must have heard him wrong. There was no way that someone could die, only to die a second time.

"You can have the guitar," Oscar finally continued, his voice shaking as tears came down his face. "I won't be able to play any instrument again anyway. Just – just do me a favor… play me something, one last time. ¿Por favor?"

Ernesto's eyes fell upon the instrument. On the day his beloved had arrived in the Land of the Dead, she turned him down, not wanting anything to do with him. He tried fixing his mistake by serenading her, only to receive nothing but a slammed window. He gave up on music after that, because what good had it served him? It tore his family apart, made them feel nothing but sorrow in the end, yet now… now, he was being offered a guitar…

The vagabundo put his hands up in protest, shaking his head. "Oscar… no. I stopped playing a long time ago, you know that." He pointed to Marco. "The guitar is going to the boy, not me."

" _Please_ ," Oscar begged in despair. "If I'm going to fade, I at least want to fade after hearing one final song."

Ernesto looked at his friend, then sighed. "Alright," he said as he took the guitar, beginning to tune it. "For you, mi amigo, I would do anything. Did you have any particular request in mind?"

"You don't have to ask. You know which one I love," Oscar replied simply, a small smile on his face.

"Right, of course," Ernesto murmured, plucking out a few notes of a lovely tune. Oscar let out a light laugh at the sounds.

Marco's eyes widened at the skill Ernesto had. He couldn't believe how  _good_  the man was at playing the guitar. He sat down next to Pepita on a block of wood, enthralled by the performance that had begun.

_"Well, everyone knows Juanita,_

_Her eyes each a different color."_

When Ernesto started singing, Marco was even more surprised as well as delighted by how smooth the man's voice was. His voice was strong yet soft and steady, filled with passion. It was like the boy was listening to a professional singer, and not just some vagabundo.

Ernesto wasn't just good, he was talented, he was brilliant, he was – he was  _amazing!_

_"Her teeth stick out,_

_And her chin goes in,_

_And her…"_

Ernesto stopped, eyeing Marco, who seemed captivated by his singing to the point where he was at the edge of his seat. Realizing that the boy was only twelve, he thought about the actual lyrics and decided that it was best if he reworded it. After all, the kid didn't need to know about sagging tatas.

_"…knuckles, they drag on the floor…"_

Marco knew from the way the older man sang the verse, that the lyrics had been changed. Having cousins who were older than him by more than two years, he knew a thing or two about censorship. "You changed up the words," he interrupted.

"Maybe I did," Ernesto admitted. "But you're a young boy. You really don't need to know the actual lyrics."

"I'm not some small kid!" Marco objected, offended. "I'm twelve!"

"Exactly," Ernesto said, while Oscar burst into laughter.

"Ay," Oscar said, wiping a tear away. "I haven't had this good of a laugh in a long time. Gracias, chiquito."

_"Her hair is like a briar,_

_She stands in a bow-legged stance,_

_And if I weren't so ugly,_

_She'd possibly give me a chance!"_

Ernesto finished the song, the last note flourishing and drifting off through the shack.

Oscar chuckled a bit, tickled with joy. He seemed more brighter, more happier now. "Reminds me of when my family would gather this very night, every year… my cousins had their guitars while my brother and I played the trumpet," he murmured. "Thank you, amigo…" His eyes closed and he seemed finally at peace.

Ernesto was upset when Oscar's bones shone of orange. Marco watched on in confusion as the edges of the man's bones glowed gold, before… he dissolved into golden dust, scattering across the wind like flower petals.

Pepita let out a sad meow. Her owner, on the other hand, was shocked and disturbed.

Ernesto went and picked up his shot glass, lifting it in honor of his friend. He drank it all in a single gulp, placing the empty glass down to Oscar's glass, which was untouched and filled with the liquid.

Oscar had been his friend since he first came to the Land of the Dead. He was like the cousin he never had, yet… he had to fade away, forgotten by the world and his living family, and for what? All because of fallout between him and his twin, which led him to being shunned and disowned… which was another reminder to Ernesto of his own upcoming fate, if he didn't get Marco to Héctor in time. He, too, would experience what his friend had, if time ran out.

"Wha- what happened to him?" Marco stammered as Ernesto passed him, stunned by what he had just witnessed. "Why- why did that happen? What-"

"He has been forgotten," Ernesto answered, filled with both sorrow for his friend and sympathy for the kid. The boy was too young, too fragile to be surrounded by death. "When there is no one alive who can remember you," he began to explain softly, "you will disappear from this world, too. It's a second death-  _the_   _Final Death_."

"Do… do you know where he went?" Marco pressed on, now anxious. He couldn't believe it. People died, only to die again… just what kind of hell was this place? What kind of sick, twisted joke was being played here?

"I don't know," was all Ernesto could say, reminded of when he tried talking to a child about death before. It was hard back then, and it was still hard right now. "I doubt anyone here does."

Marco tried thinking of positive thoughts. "Hey, since I've met him, when I go back, I could think of him," he suggested. "Maybe I could draw a picture of him and hang it up! That way, he'll appear back here and won't-"

"I'm afraid it isn't as simple as that, chamaco," Ernesto interrupted, shaking his head sadly. "Memories have to be passed down by people who have known us in life, who look back on us fondly. They have to tell stories about us, put up our photos… but with no one left alive to do that for Oscar, he… he won't be here with us anymore."

Marco was deep in thought now, looking at the vagabundo's bones. His bones were yellow, just like Oscar's, which meant that if he didn't put up his photo in time, then… then he would also meet that fate… and he didn't want that to happen to him.

Hearing the boy let out a shaky breath followed by a stifled sob, Ernesto quickly placed his hand on the twelve year-old's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry, chico," he tried to calm him down, taking on a more cheery tone. "As time marches forward, it will happen to everyone eventually, not just him." He held the guitar out to Marco, changing the subject, "Come, Riverito. The contest isn't going to win itself."

Marco looked back at the glasses one last time, then back at Ernesto. He took a breath in and said, "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I thought the hardest part of this chapter would be writing Ernesto and Marco, but it turned out to be Oscar instead because I kept mixing up his name with Felipe's. Huh, who would've thought?
> 
> See you guys in the next chapter. Bye~


	8. Un poquititito loco!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I didn't update sooner, it's just that I've been visiting the states and I saw Missing Link last saturday, and it's my new favorite Laika film so I've been fixating on it a lot and am trying to come up with some ideas for a future fic, especially considering that I have a brand new OTP from said film too. Don't worry though, I'm still a Coco loco and a Vicnesto shipper to the end, and I'll still work on my fics- it's just that I've added something new to my hyperfixations list, that's all.  
> Anyway, this by far has to be my favorite chapter, due to combining a deleted scene and the "Poco Loco" song number in the movie, along with a little addition at the end. Sorry if there's any errors, it's just that I've been writing for days on end so most of the check-throughs I did were quick. Perdóneme.

Since the plaza was located near the center of the city, the two decided to hitch a ride on the back of a trolley as neither of them would be able to walk the whole way there due to how little time they had before sunrise. Sure, it was illegal, but it was better than letting their time run out. Besides, the view of the buildings was so cool… from this high up, Marco could see all the ancient artifacts from the Aztec and Mayan eras, as well as all the stars above in the dark night sky. Not to mention, he could hear all of the music too, but the song that stuck out the most was an instrumental Ernesto was strumming on the guitar.

Marco glanced at the vagabundo’s photo in his hands, looking at it for a moment, giving it a good scan before looking back at his friend. He thought about what Ernesto had said about musicians back at the rehearsals area, his whole speech about music on the way to Shantytown and how he then went on to play that song for Oscar when he was fading away… it was weird, how much he knew about music despite his distaste towards musicians. “Back at the warehouse, you said you couldn’t stand musicians,” the boy pointed out. “But… but you know _so much_ about music, and- and you _play_ like a musician… I don’t get it.”

“When we were younger, Héctor and I played together,” Ernesto answered honestly. “All of the things he knows today were taught by me.” He played a fun little tune, without any botching at the end unlike many other guitarists.

Marco’s eyes widened. “No way!” he cried out. “You played with _the_ Héctor Rivera?”

“Of course, my boy,” Ernesto replied with a smile. “How would I have known him? Our mothers were friends and introduced us to each other when I was six and he was two. We were friends ever since, even after they passed on. We grew up together, and did some old-fashioned playing on the road when we were almost teenagers…” He smiled, filled with nostalgic thoughts of the past. “He was such an amateur in the beginning, couldn’t even pluck out a single note of a guitar until I showed him all the tricks.”

“No manches, güey,” Marco said, finding it hard to believe that his idol was once an amateur. 

“ _Sí manches_ ,” Ernesto swore. “He wasn’t really much of a showman… he was more of a guitarist, really, but I will cut him some slack when I say that we were both doltish boys who had only recently embraced the music within them…” _No thanks to our fathers,_ he would’ve said, had it not been for Marco’s age. The boy didn’t need to know about how they were left to go on the road because they couldn’t go back home, lest they were to face the wrath of two angry, drunk, recently-widowed men. “But when you start to play on the road, you learn so much and grow within time… you let your inner music out.” 

Marco looked at the photo, then pocketed it. He was quiet for a few minutes, thinking out the fact that despite being a childhood friend of Rivera’s, Ernesto wasn’t even mentioned _once_ in his biography – there wasn’t even a single _hint_ that Rivera had a friend who he grew up with. “...hey, Ernesto,” the boy started, “don’t you ever find it strange how Rivera became this esteemed, legendary figure yet nobody even knows your name, let alone who you are?”

Ernesto froze, stiff as a stone. The real reason no one knew about him was because Héctor never bothered to credit him for the songs _he_ had written, which meant that not a single person in the living world knew he even existed, leaving him to be forgotten. Héctor even went as far as to outright avoid him ever since he died, which was understable, but it still hurt the vagabundo. He’d been helping him out since day one, yet Héctor didn’t return the favor… why? _Why_ did he have to do this to his own friend? He felt very apprehensive about seeing him again, for the first time in a century.

But Marco could not read his mind, so he went on, more blunt than a chancla to the head: “I mean, like, when you went to the movies and saw him on the big screen, did you ever think about how he had it all figured out while you were doing nothing with your life?”

“First of all,” Ernesto began, quickly wanting to direct the conversation away from Rivera, “I have done _many_ things with my life, and second: I have not seen a single film of his. Not once, not ever.”

“What?” Marco asked, looking at him with surprise. “Not even a trailer?”

“No,” Ernesto answered, looking down. “I was already dead by the time they came out.”

“Oh...” 

Then, suddenly, there were two bright lights shining in their faces. Marco looked ahead and saw something big following the trolley.

“Hey, Ernesto?” he asked, feeling a little uneasy. “Do you know what that thing is?”

Ernesto looked ahead, squinting to see if he could make out what it was. “I… don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe it’s another trolley…?”

That didn’t seem to be the case though, as Pepita’s fur stuck up and she began hissing.

The dark figure sprung up into the air, letting out a low growl, which in turn made Pepita yowl. Hearing the noise followed by the sound of wings flapping, Marco knew that this was not a cart, but some type of monster. “A trolley doesn’t growl and have wings!”

The creature barreled towards the two, revealing itself to be a large, glowing, neon-colored canine hybrid with wings – and boy, was it _angry._

“No, no él otra vez,” Ernesto whispered, eyes wide. “Not Dante…”

“Dante? What-”

“I’ll explain later!” Ernesto cut him off, while he twisted the door handle that led to the inside of the other carts. “Come on, chico! Help me with this damn-”

The large creature lunged forward, trying to grab Marco. The boy dodged, but leaned over the side a little too far, causing him to nearly fall over. Seeing this, Ernesto gave up trying to open the door and quickly grabbed onto Marco’s arm, pulling him away from the ledge before he could fall.

That didn’t stop the creature from grabbing Marco’s hoodie with its teeth though, trying to fly away with him. The boy reached his hands out, trying desperately to grab onto something, _anything._

“Ernesto, help!”

“ _Marco_!”

The vagabundo rushed to the boy’s aid, grabbing his leg and pulling with all his might, trying to win the tug-of-war against the alebrije. Looking into the boy’s eyes, Ernesto saw just how scared he was, how helpless he was and that was when he _knew_ he had to do something.

So, he mustered up all of his strength and yanked Marco right out of the alebrije’s hold. In retaliation to this, the alebrije circled around the cart like it was prey, before whacking its tail against both sides. Ernesto nearly fell out of the trolley, but was pulled back into it by Marco, who’d grabbed both of his arms.

“Gracias, chamaco,” Ernesto thanked Marco, breathing in and out heavily.

“Don’t mention it,” Marco replied, taking a few breathes in and out as well. “It’s the least I could do, after you saved me back there…”

But then, just as they thought they were safe, there was a loud thud. They both looked to the top of the trolley and saw the alebrije, ready to pounce at any given second. They both let out a startled cry, before Ernesto tried to open the door again, only to fail once more.

Realizing that this was it, the two clung onto each other. Ernesto pulled Marco close to him, and the boy buried his face into the vagabundo’s chest. Hearing the alebrije growl, they both closed their eyes and braced themselves for the end-

Only to open them upon hearing Pepita yowling loudly as she pounced on the creature’s muzzle. The alebrije being much larger didn’t stop her from unsheathing her claws and swiping it across the face, making it shake its head and throw her back onto the cart.

The alebrije hung back in the air, before it tried lunging once more-

Only to be stopped by the trolley entering a tunnel far too small for it, thus saving the three from its wrath. The creature let out a defeated howl, which echoed throughout the tunnel as the trolley sped to a safer area.

Ernesto and Marco stayed in place for a moment, looking back at where their attacker had just been while trying to register what had happened only a few seconds ago.

Finally, Marco cried out, “What kind of alebrije was _that_?!”

“Dante,” Ernesto replied, letting go of the boy. “He’s the type of alebrije that has a foul temper, like a drunkard who just inhaled snuff… and let’s just say that he _loathes_ me.” He gave the boy a curious look. “And I guess he isn’t too keen on you either…”

“Yeah, well, he was no match for the glorious Pepita!” Marco cried out proudly, picking up the cat and rubbing her back. “Who’s an amazing girl? You are! Yes, you are!” The cat simply purred and licked her owner’s arm in response to all the praise she was receiving.

“For an alley cat, she sure is extraordinary,” Ernesto remarked, then focused on Marco. “And you, chamaco… you are pretty good, too.”

“Thanks,” Marco laughed, lightly punching Ernesto’s arm.

“Careful now, these bones are fragile,” Ernesto laughed as well.

Just then, a loud horn went off as the trolley started to descend into the square, where music was blasting and there were dancers, singers and mariachis everywhere. In the center, a bunch of excited skeletons were crowded around a statue of a familiar guitarist.

Once the trolley touched the ground, Ernesto gestured towards the area. “This is it, chico,” he said. “Welcome to Rivera Plaza.” He slung the guitar around Marco’s shoulders. “The show has begun, niño. Come now, we mustn’t be late.”

Marco nodded, following Ernesto to the stage area.

#

“Bienvenidos a todos!” an emcee greeted the audience, stepping out from the doors of a cardboard cutout of herself. Her bones jiggled as she spoke to the crowd enthusiastically, “Now… WHO'S READY FOR SOME MÚSICA?!”

She did a little dance as the audience hooted excitedly, while trumpets and trombones played in the background. “It's a battle of the bands, amigos!” she went on, making the crowd simmer down a little. Marco and Ernesto happened to be walking through the crowd, towards the backstage area when she was speaking. They both looked ahead and watched as she went on explaining the event.

“The winner gets to play for the maestro himself, the one and only Héctor Rivera, at his fiesta tonight!” she exclaimed, gesturing towards the famous musician’s tower off in the distance, where the lights shined brightly.

“That’s our laissez-passer, chico,” Ernesto whispered to Marco, pointing ahead.

A mariachi band played in the background as the crowd whooped, while the emcee was letting out fake gritos while shaking her body and culo. “Let the competition begin!” she finally finished her opening speech.

And begin, it did. There were many acts that went up first. Every group gathered for the contest each had their own act and their own variety of music, which included but was not limited to: heavy metal, accordions, an iguana used as a xylophone and even some singing dogs... not that any of them stood out to the audience, who seemed pretty bored with what they saw so far.

Backstage, Marco and Ernesto were standing amongst other contestants, waiting their turn. Marco felt a little nervous about winning the contest, since the audience weren't pleased with the other acts- but then again, maybe it meant that he had a chance. Besides, there was no way they wouldn't like hearing a guitar solo version of one of the greatest songs ever... right?

“So, chico, what song will you be serenading the audience with tonight?” Ernesto asked him.

“Mi favorito: _Remember Me_ ,” Marco answered confidently, already plucking at the strings of the guitar. It was the very first Rivera song he had listened to- it was what introduced him to his idol eight years ago, so obviously, he _had_ to play it.

“Oh no, you aren’t!” Ernesto yelled suddenly, snatching the guitar from him. Hearing that song and just how twisted it had been made his bone marrow boil. All the meaning it had in the beginning was stripped away, and whatever was left of it was turned into some ridiculous, over-the-top love ballad or a self-centered melody. “You will _not_ be playing that song.”

Marco frowned. The man’s stern tone reminded him too much of his father, especially with how they had argued earlier that night. “Por qué no? It’s his best hit.”

“It’s _too big_ of a hit,” Ernesto pointed out, grimacing in disgust.

And he was right. All around them were other musicians who were each singing their own versions of the song.

_“Remember me, though I have to travel far,_

_Remember me…”_

_“Remember me!_

_Don’t let it make you cry!”_

There was even a man playing water glasses to the famous song. Ernesto gave Marco a smug look. “Need I remind you that those nuns also played that song?”

“Um…” Realizing the vagabundo had a point, Marco tried thinking of another song. There was _Un Poco Loco,_ which was his second favorite song, and no one else seemed to be using it. “Okay, then how about _Un Poco Loco_?”

“Now that’s more like it!” Ernesto exclaimed enthusiastically, nodding his head in approval while he gave the guitar to him.

The stagehand peeked out from around the corner. “Riverito? You’re on standby,” he informed him. He looked to another band, all dressed in pink. “Los Chachalacos, you’re up next!”

Marco watched as they went onstage and performed, seeing just how good they were… so good that the audience was finally excited, after all of the previous acts they had to witness. This made him feel even more nervous now. There were so many people out there… there had to be hundreds- no, _thousands_ of audience members…

He hadn’t even practiced singing before and he had no time to do so now since at any minute, he could be called up next. How was he going to perform in front of the deadest looking crowd? How was he going to grab their attention? The thought of how many people there were, the little time he had to practice, and the stakes of him winning or losing all piled up and-

“Why are you so nervous?” Ernesto asked, noticing how the boy’s body shook with anxiety.

“I’m fine,” Marco lied, sitting down on a crate. “It’s just… this is my first performance, and-”

“ _What_?” Ernesto cried out in surprise. “Back there in Shantytown, you told me you were a musician!”

“And I am a musician!” Marco said firmly. “I’ve been practicing for _years!_ It’s just- it’s just that I’ve done it alone, and never had the chance to share my music with others before…”

“Ay, ay, ay, Marco!” Ernesto groaned, grabbing the sides of his head. “You need to win this- you _have_ to win this,” he stressed as he sat down on a crate. “If you lose this competition, you’ll be losing your life too, and here you are, telling me that you’ve never shared your music with anyone before?”

“I know, _I know_ ,” Marco sighed. “That’s why I’m hoping I do good out there, so that they don’t react the same way they did to the other acts.” He wanted so desperately to share his music as he never got to do it before, but the thought of it being rejected… he went through that once, and he most certainly didn’t want to go through it again.

Understanding the boy’s fears and all that was at stake, Ernesto tried taking the guitar. “Alright, I will take your place and go up there inst-”

“No!” Marco cried out, putting the guitar behind him protectively. “If I let you perform for me, then what does that say about me as a musician? How could I even call myself one? I need to perform. I need to sing, play and prove that not only am I worthy of Rivera’s blessing, but that I’m worthy of being his grandson too… because maybe then, I’ll be worthy of someone’s unconditional love and support.”

The boy’s words touched Ernesto’s phantom heart, making it clench. He looked into the boy’s eyes and saw sincerity, making him soften. “Alright, chamaco… if you want to perform, then I’ll teach you how to perform.”

Marco perked up, surprised that the vagabundo wanted to help him.

“First, you must relax,” Ernesto told him. “You can’t perform if you’re shaking worse than a nun in a confessions box.”

Marco did as he was told. He breathed in and out, then started shaking his limbs to loosen himself up.

“¡Excelente!” Ernesto praised him. “Now, do you know how to grito?”

“You mean… yell?”

“Shout! Make yourself heard by howling with all your might!” Ernesto encouraged him. To demonstrate, he stood up and let out his own loud shout: "Aaaaayyyyya!" He grinned and pulled Marco up to his feet. “Now, give me your greatest grito yet.”

“Ah — aaaah!” Marco screeched, trying and failing miserably to grito. “Ayaayaaayyyy…”

His screeching was so bad that Pepita let out an upset mewl and hid behind Ernesto, who groaned. “Oh, chico…” He looked back at the stage and saw that Los Chachalacos’ performance had came to an end, receiving loud cheers from the audience.

“Riverito, you’re on now!” the stagehand called for Marco.

The boy’s muscles clenched and his heart began to beat rapidly. All of those nerves he had previously shaken off were now crawling back up his spine and anxiety bubbled within his stomach, making him start to twitch with fear. This was it – it was his turn to perform now, in front of that large crowd with such high standards.

“Chamaco,” Ernesto said, stepping in front of Marco. “Listen to me.” He noticed the boy’s eyes were staring off into space, so he grabbed his arm. “Look at me, Marco.” When the boy’s eyes were on him, he went on, “I know you are nervous and I know how hard it is to play for a crowd, but listen to me when I say that you are a talented boy. With a passion like yours, I can tell that you’re meant for many great things out there… do not let your emotions deny what you’re meant to be. Listen to your heart and play for them, share your music with them- embrace your inner artist!”

The older man’s words seemed to chase all of Marco’s fears away, stopping his twitching. “Thanks, Nesto.”

“I know you can do it, chico,” the vagabundo said, then pushed him towards the stage. “Now go, and remember: you were made for this!”

Marco smiled at him, then went up the stage steps.

“Damas y caballeros… we now have our final act,” the emcee announced. “So please give a warm welcome of applause to our final contestant: Riverito!”

She stepped aside just as Marco came onto the stage, walking towards the mic. There was a small round of applause, followed by talking.

Seeing how many people there were, Marco’s confidence soon diminished. All of those eyes, focusing on _him_ … if it were not for the paint and mask covering his face, everyone would have clearly seen it growing pale as he began to tremble nervously.

Off stage, in the stage wing, Ernesto looked at Pepita. “Come on, niño… you can do this…”

Marco was panicking now, and it didn’t help that one of the audience members called for the singing dogs to be brought back. He let out whimpers and shaky breaths, backing away from the mic and looking away towards Ernesto. The vagabundo gave him a reassuring smile, then motioned for him to grito.

That smile… there was something about it. He didn’t know what it was, but all he knew was that it soothed him.

Marco took a few steps toward the mic. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath in and then let out a loud cry: “¡Aaaaajajajajai!”

The audience whistled, whooped and cheered in approval. Looking around and seeing the positive reaction he had gotten out of them, the twelve year-old raised his hand and began strumming the guitar’s strings, plucking out the intro to the song. After taking a couple of chords, he began to sing.

_“What color is the sky?_

_¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor!_

_You tell me that it’s red_

_¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor!”_

Ernesto took a few steps up, holding onto the railing as he watched the boy sing, amazed by the child’s skill. This boy wasn’t just a great artist, he was a _star._

As he began to warm up more, Marco couldn’t help but start dancing. He felt so free, so _alive_ when he sang. Why had he been so nervous in the beginning? This was great! This was something he had dreamed to do for a long time, and now he was finally doing it- he was finally performing! As he continued vocalizing the lyrics, his voice grew louder and more joyful. The audience’s energy caught up with his as they all clapped and whooped in time with the song.

_“Where should I put my shoes?_

_¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor!_

_You say, 'put them on your head!'_

_¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor!_

_You make me un poco loco!_

_¡Un poquititito loco!_

_The way you keep me guessing,_

_I'm nodding and I'm yessing!_

_I'll count it as a blessing…_

_That I'm only un poco loco!”_

Ernesto watched on proudly, only for his facial expression to contort into a nervous one as Pepita sunk her teeth into his pants in an attempt to drag him onstage. “Stop that!” he hissed, trying to swat her away. “I am _not_ going up there!”

Like most cats though, Pepita was not going to be take no for a response. She continued to pull on Ernesto’s pants, dragging him up to the stage and into the spotlight, before running back to the stage wing.

“¡Maldita gata!” Ernesto hissed at the cat’s fleeing form. Then, his eyes looked straight ahead at the audience, who cheered at the sight of him. Well, the show had to go on, so he began to dance as well, moving his feet and legs to the rhythm of the guitar.

His dancing skills impressed Marco, whose back pressed up against his. “Hey, for a skeleton, you’re not too bad at dancing!” he teased.

“Not so bad yourself, flaquito!” Ernesto returned the teasing, then made a gesture. “Hope you can keep up though.”

#

Dante sniffed around, and the glowing footprints led him to the edge of the audience.

The dead de la Cruzes were behind him, with Victoria going up to his side to take a good look at the footprint. “A de la Cruz footprint, size seven and a half, pronated…” She looked to her family. “He's here. Spread out and search for him!”

“But Abuelita, aren't you going to come with us?” Imelda asked her grandmother.

Victoria shook her head, knowing that if she were to go into the plaza, she would be hit with memories of the past- of all the moments _him_ and her had shared, before that damned friend of his stuck his nose where it didn't belong. “No,” she replied. “I'll be searching around the streets.”

Imelda seemed to frown for a moment, but nodded her head. “Okay,” she accepted.

The family then spread out with Gustavo and Chicharrón going in one direction, while Imelda and Frida went in the other. Franco went on his own, towards the stage area.

Victoria watched her family head off, standing alone for a while until she heard a familiar voice sing. Her metaphorical heart clenched as memories of a happier timed flooded in- memories of a time when she had been his muse, his _diosa._

She held back her tears and rubbed the scruff of her spirit guide's neck, before they both left the plaza.

#

Ernesto danced around the stage no different from how a mariachi would, before he finally joined in the singing.

_“The loco that you make me,_

_It is just un poco crazy!_

_The sense that you're not making…”_

He bumped shoulders with Marco, making the boy beam at him and sing in response.

_“The liberties you're taking…”_

_“Leaves my cabeza shaking,”_ they sang in unison, making the crowd holler even more than before. _“You are just un poco loco!”_

They both twirled around the microphone as they sang, before Ernesto yelled out, “¡Dale duro, Marquito!”

They began to let out loud cries, trading off their gritos. Despite how hot Marco's face felt as he let out his gritos, he felt so happy, so joyful… he felt liberated.

For once in his life, Marco truly felt free- free from his family’s music ban, free to sing and dance, free to be what he wanted to be.

And it was all thanks to Ernesto.

_“He's just un poco crazy, leaves my cabeza shaking_

_He's just un poco crazy, leaves my cabeza shaking!”_

While the audience began to sing the chorus to the song, the de la Cruzes continued with their search.

“Have you seen a kid?” Chicharrón asked.

“He's twelve years-old, alive,” Gustavo began describing his nephew, making a gesture of how tall the boy was. “He wears a blue hoodie and is this tall, you can't miss him.”

The men shook their heads.

_“He's just un poco crazy, leaves my cabeza shaking_

_He's just un poco crazy, leaves my cabeza shaking!”_

“Have you seen a living child anywhere?” Frida asked two women. “His name is Marco. We're trying to send him back home…”

Like the men before them, the women also shook their heads.

“Come on, Tía,” Imelda said to her aunt, gesturing her head off to the side. “He obviously isn't here, so let's try looking somewhere else.”

Frida nodded and followed her niece, walking away from the crowd.

Back on stage, Ernesto and Marco were wrapping up the final verse.

_“¡Un poquititi-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-to loco!”_

They danced around each other, before the vagabundo picked the boy up and placed him on his shoulders as they finished the song.

The audience roared with delight, giving their loudest applause. The two were still for a moment, soaking in the crowd's cheering. Marco grinned and hugged Ernesto's neck, resting his head against his, making the vagabundo smile up at him and pat his leg. 

Then, Ernesto put Marco back down. "My boy, you are the most talent, most spectacular musician I have ever met!" he praised him. "It has been an honor to be your friend and singing partner." He looked back out to the audience, giving a bow.

Marco swelled with joy at this. In this moment, he felt like a real, accomplished musician. He looked back out the crowd and bowed too. 

"Otra, otra, otra!" the audience chanted, demanding to hear another song.

"Looks like we have an encore," Ernesto remarked, tapping the boy's arm. "We might be winning this contest after all."

Listening to the crowd's demands and keeping Ernesto's words in mind, Marco thought of what song he could sing next. He looked through the crowd and saw men dressed in suits, children in costumes and women in traditional dresses and tank tops- 

Wait... tank tops... that was it! He knew what song he could sing next!

Marco began strumming the guitar's strings, playing a new tune that got the audience to cheer even louder. He closed his eyes, letting the music exit him.

_“Solitaria camina la bikina,_

_La gente se pone a murmurar_

_Dicen que tiene una pena,_

_Dicen que tiene una pena que la hace llorar_

_Altanera, preciosa y orgullosa,_

_No permite la quieran consolar_

_Pasa luciendo su real majestad,_

_Pasa, camina, los mira sin verlos jamás.”_

The audience swayed back and forth along to the song, joining in the chorus once more as the boy continued singing as strongly and passionately as he could.

_“La bikina tiene pena y dolor,_

_La bikina no conoce el amor!_

_Altanera preciosa y orgullosa,_

_No permite la quieran consolar!_

_Dicen que alguien ya vino y se fue,_

_Dicen que pasa las noches llorando por él!”_

He finished with a strong flourish, then opened his eyes. He was met by an applause that was deafening, making it hard for him to even hear the emcee’s congratulations as she gave him a slip of paper. He looked at the slip of paper and his heart began beating rapidly again.

It was a ticket– and not just any ticket, but a ticket to Rivera’s party.

He did it. He won the competition, he won the ticket to the party- he had succeeded. He was going to his great-great grandfather and he was going to get his blessing.

Marco felt like he was high up in the air, walking on the clouds. He looked at his friend and shouted happily, “Ernesto, look! We won!”

“I know, chamaco!” Ernesto shouted back, a wide grin on his face. “I’m so proud of you!”

Marco’s chest swelled with pride, only for it to sink as he looked out into the crowd again and saw his family. His aunts and uncles were talking to strangers, and-

He looked to the right of the stage and saw Papá Franco talking to the emcee.

His entire family was here, looking for him. Hell, at this rate, Mamá Victoria was probably right around the corner.

Marco quickly moved over to Ernesto and grabbed his arm. “We have to go, _now,_ ” he said.

“Wha-”

Before Ernesto could even ask why they were leaving, Marco dragged him backstage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “La Bikina” is a song written by Luis Miguel about a woman who was left behind by her husband. The reason why she’s called a “bikini” is because Luis’ son was at the beach and was helping his dad with writing the song, and when he saw the women he told his father they should be referred to as bikinis, thus we have ‘The Bikini’ as our song title.  
> A cover of the song by Karol Sevilla- a Mexican actress who starred in an Argentine series by Disney Channel called ‘Soy Luna’- was featured in the Spanish soundtrack of Pixar’s Coco, since it fit well with Imelda’s backstory. Since this is a roleswap story, I figured to use it here as a bonus song, since it fits Victoria well here.  
> Hope this 5,000 monster of a chapter was a fun read for y’all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go write the draft for a oneshot of my new ship. c:


	9. Arguments and picking sides

“Oye!” Ernesto grunted as Marco pulled him backstage, startled at the boy’s sudden actions. What was this kid thinking? “What in the hell was that?”

“Look, I’ll explain later,” Marco said quickly, trying to get them both away as soon as possible. “Right now, we gotta go!”

“But what’s the rush?” Ernesto asked, confused as to why this kid wanted to leave so soon. A few minutes ago, he was giving the crowd an encore, but now he wanted to leave? This child was befuddling.

Before Marco could make up an excuse, the emcee began to speak, answering Ernesto’s question.

“Damas y caballeros, I have an emergency announcement: please be on the lookout for a living boy, answers to the name of Marco. Earlier tonight, he ran away from his family. They just want to send him back to the Land of the Living… if anyone has information, please do not hesitate in contacting the proper authorities so that this issue may be sorted out, and to Marco if he is anywhere in the plaza: please stay in your spot, wherever you may be. Your family is here, and one of them will pick you up so remain calm until then.”  

Ernesto stopped in his tracks, eyes focused on the bit of stage where the hostess stood. Once she had finished her announcement, he looked back to Marco, anger and betrayal in his eyes. “I believe that earlier tonight, you said that the only family member you had here was Rivera,” he recalled, his tone ice cold as he yanked his arm away. “You said that you didn’t know if you had any other family member out here, that he was the only one who could send you home.”

The look on Ernesto’s face, the tone of his voice – it reminded Marco of his argument with his abuela, his father and Mamá Victoria. “That… that might have been a lie,” he admitted. “But listen, I-!”

“You mean to tell me that you knew you had family here, you _knew_ that you could have gone home but you decided to ignore that?!” Ernesto shouted, angered by the fact that not only had he been lied to, but this kid put his life in danger for _nothing_. “My photo could have been put up this whole time!”

“But you gotta understand: my family _hates_ music!” Marco tried to desperately explain, his stomach churning as he felt like he was reliving all of the arguments he’d had with his family. “I had to play music alone in an attic all by myself for _years,_ and the only support I had was from _my cat!_ My entire family wants me to give up music! I need the blessing of a musician, not a blessing born out of conditional love!”

Ernesto’s eyes narrowed. “I told you not to lie to me, and what did you do? You lied!” he accused him. “You lied and nearly got yourself killed over nothing!”

Marco felt anger burn inside him. “Don’t you _dare_ go pointing fingers at me when _you_ were the one lying about having tickets to Rivera’s concert, hypocrite!” he yelled back.

“I want you to take one good, long look at me, Marco,” Ernesto hissed, gesturing to himself. “My bones are yellow. I’ve been dead for over _ninety years_ and my photo hasn’t been put up _once._ If it isn’t put up soon, then who knows if I’m going to last the night? I’m not going to miss my only opportunity of crossing that bridge just because you want to live out a _ludicrous delusion_!”

With the way Ernesto had referred to his dreams, Marco was instantly reminded of what his Tía Luisa had said.

_He spends so much time surrounded by musicians, to the point where his head becomes filled with insane delusions!_

And with those words followed the words of all of his other family members.

_He’s forgotten what the word ‘no’ even means!_

_This is not the future I envisioned for my son._

_I forbid it!_

_There will be no more music, no plaza – none of it. End of discussion._

_There. No guitar, no music and no more defiance._

_You will never take a guitar into your hands ever again!_

_Ah-ah-ah! You know the rules, Marco. Mamá Victoria’s word is final, and no means no._

_Don’t make this more difficult than it already is, mijo._

“It isn’t a delusion!” Marco defended his dream. Just how could a skeleton who sang and dance say that his musical dream was nothing more than a delusion?

Ernesto grabbed Marco’s arm, starting to pull him towards the stage. “You’re going back to your family,” he decided.

“What? _No!”_ Marco pulled his arm back, trying to wriggle it out of the man’s hold. “Get your grubby hands off me! Let go!” he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of hurt, anger and betrayal. He thought he could trust Ernesto, that the vagabundo was different from every other adult in his life but he was wrong, so very wrong.

Ernesto wasn’t different from the others- no, he was _exactly like them._ Everyone said they cared, pretended to listen and said they’d always be supportive and have his back, but if he so much as dared to go against the expectations that were held for him, then those sentiments turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of lies.

And Marco was _sick_ of it. He was sick of _everything._

Ernesto’s grip didn’t loosen. “One day, you’ll understand that I was doing you a favor.”

That did it for Marco. He yanked his hand out of the vagabundo’s grasp, shoving him away. “You’re no different from all of the other adults!” he screamed, fighting back the tears of frustration that were building up. “You say you care, you say you listen, but you don’t care! You don’t listen! You pretend you know everything, that you know what’s best for me and that you understand but you _don’t!_ You understand _nothing_ because all you care about is _yourself!”_

“Chico-”

“Don’t call me that!” Marco interrupted, seething with rage. “You have no idea what I’ve lived through, what I’ve gone through before I got here- you haven’t the slightest clue of how it feels to be have your life dictated by people who want you to be something you’re not, so don’t you _dare_ say you’re doing me a favor!” He took the man’s photo out of his pocket, flinging it right at him. “Take your damned photo and stay the hell away from me!” With that, he stormed away.

Ernesto quickly scrambled to get his photo. He couldn’t lose his ticket to getting across the bridge and seeing _her!_ Once he managed to grab it, he looked it over and sighed in relief to see that no damage had been done to it… only to realize that there was damage done to his relationship with his little friend. “Chico?” he called, looking around for the boy. “¿Dónde estás?”

Marco wasn’t there.

“Marco!” he called out loudly, pushing through the crowd as he searched frantically, desperately for the boy. Oh, why did he have to snap at him like that? Why did he have to go and screw it up, letting his temper get the better of him? Now, the boy had disappeared. Their time was running out and the boy wasn’t familiar with this place, therefore he could easily get lost or wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time…

And Héctor… oh god, what would Héctor do if the boy _did_ manage to get to his mansion? The boy had so much faith in him, and Ernesto just _knew_ that the musician wouldn’t waste an opportunity when presented with one…

“Marco, come back! I’m sorry for what I said!” he continued to call out, now more worried. “MARCO!”

But the boy was long gone, leaving the vagabundo on his own.

#

Marco angrily stomped down a staircase, a frown set on his face. He looked around until he spotted Rivera’s tall tower, shining in the distance. He adjusted his guitar strap, then set off in determination. He’d get to Rivera and get his blessing, no matter what it took.

Pepita came down the stairs after him, mewling worriedly. She knew something was wrong, so she followed after her master, yowling loudly to get his attention.

“¡Silencio, Pepita!” Marco hissed, trying to get her to quiet down. With how loud she was being, she was going attract unwanted attention towards him – that, and he really wasn’t in the best mood after the argument he’d had with his so-called ‘friend’ earlier.

Pepita was insistent though, using her claws to grab onto Marco’s pants and tug him back. “No, Pepita, stop that!” he yelled, pulling back from her. “I’m not going back to him! He’s not going to be of any help!” After breaking free, he continued marching forward.

The cat tried again by running forward, sinking her claws into the sleeve of his hoodie, making sure to avoid touching his arm. Marco tried pulling back, but his hoodie's sleeve was pulled back so far that it showed his skin. "I said  _stop it, Pepita!_ Quit it!" he grunted, finally getting his sleeve back. "Rosita was wrong about you! You're no spirit guide, you're just an annoying, pesky cat! Now, just go away and leave me alone!"

Pepita shrunk back, mewling sadly before padding off. 

Unfortunately for Marco, a couple of skeletons had seen his exposed arm, with one man notifying an officer right away.

"It's him!"

"It's that living boy!"

"I heard about him."

"Look, he's alive!"

"The boy's alive!"

Noticing that all eyes were on him, including a policewoman's, Marco took off running. He ran across railroad tracks and slid down a pipe onto a lower area. He smiled a little determinedly, before a familiar canine alebrije landed right in front of him and let out a loud howl, cutting off his path. "AAAHHH!" 

What was on top of Dante terrified him even more though. 

"I've had enough of this mischief!" Mamá Victoria exclaimed, eyes narrowed. "This ridiculous little game of hide and seek ends  _right now!_ I am giving you my blessing and you are going straight home!"

" _No_!" Marco snapped at her, startling her as he then ran away. "I won't accept your stupid conditions, so you and Dante can go shove it!" he yelled, running up a narrow stairway, where she couldn't get through with her alebrije.

Victoria was forced to hop off her alebrije's back in order to follow him. "Marco Antonio de la Cruz, you come back here _this instant_!" she shouted, pursuing him on foot. She loved her great-great grandson, she really did, but sometimes he was too stubborn. She was only doing what was best for him. Why couldn't he see that? 

Marco ignored the woman's calls and continued running up the staircase. He wasn't going to follow her rules anymore. He wasn't going to let  _anyone_ stop him from doing whatever it took to be a musician- not his abuelita, not his parents and certainly not the woman who started the music ban. It was his life, and he was going to live it the way he should've been living it a long time ago.

His running paused once he reached an iron gate.  _A dead end... damn it!_ he cursed silently, realizing it was locked. He looked over his shoulder and saw his great-great grandmother getting closer, then looked back at the gate. He was pretty thin, so maybe... well, there was only one way to find out. He wriggled through the gate, the only thing stopping him from getting through being his guitar.

"I am only doing what's best for you!" Victoria exclaimed, running up to him. "Why won't you let me help you?"

Marco managed to pull his guitar through the gates. "'Doing what's best for me'?" he scoffed. "You don't know what's best for me, you only know what's best for yourself! You think you're helping me when all you're doing is ruining my life!" 

Mamá Victoria's eyes went wide as she was stopped by the gate. "I'm... _what_?"

Marco turned around, facing her. "Music is the one thing that makes me feel free," he started. "It's the one thing I'm good at, and it makes me happy... it helps me escape from all the harsh things in the real world, it's something I'm passionate about- it's shaped my life in such a positive way." He felt tears well up in his eyes. "But you don't care about that. You don't care about the positives of music and only focus on the negatives because of one incident,  _one_ event that happened a  _century_ ago! You think you understand, but you don't and you never will." He turned, ready to run away, but he was stopped by-

_“Me quitarán de quererte, llorona,_

_Pero de olvidarte, nunca…”_

Mamá Victoria’s voice was soft and gentle, but strained due to her age. Marco turned back to her, surprised that the one who started the music ban had just sung right then and there. “But- but you hate music,” he said.

She smiled nostalgically. “Many years ago, when I was a young woman, I loved music,” she told him. “I know that feeling- the passionate one you get when you hear someone sing, and you can’t help but sing along. I remember it so well… I used to be the average girl in Oaxaca who would head to the plaza and dance, and that was how I met him… my husband. He was three years older than me, and he just saw me dancing and decided to play his guitar…” Her eyes glistened as she seemed to become lost within a memory. “Oh, how he would look at me and tell me that I was so beautiful, that I had such a gorgeous voice… after a while of courting, we married and it was just the two of us. He would always play his guitar and I would sing and dance, and it was all so perfect…”

Marco listened to his great-great grandmother speak about her husband and past, finding it strange how calm she sounded. She spoke in such a relatable manner, as opposed to her usual strict way of speaking- it was like he was facing a completely different woman instead of the family matriarch.

Victoria’s smile faded. “But then Elena was born and suddenly, there was something else in my life- someone that was worth more than music. I wanted to settle down, start a family and raise our daughter… but he wanted to play for the world.” She shook her head with a sigh. “We both had to make sacrifices to get what we wanted- he chose music, and I chose my daughter.” She looked at her tataranieto, her amber eyes boring into his brown ones. “Now it is your turn to make a choice.”

Marco was torn, upset that he was being forced to choose. “Why must I choose?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why can’t I have both family and music? Why must it be one over the other? Why- why can’t you try to support me _for once?_ That’s what families are supposed to do- they’re supposed to support your decisions and life choices.”

Victoria was visibly taken back by this.

Marco wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “But let’s face it: you’re never gonna support me,” he sniffled. “You’d rather clip a songbird’s wings before he can even fly.”  

He turned away from her and ran up the staircase, leaving her to think about what he’d said. She couldn’t help but wonder… was she doing the right thing, or was her tataranieto right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "La Llorona" lyrics used near the end are from the original version by Chavela Vargas, which was inspired by her romantic feelings for Frida Kahlo. Go check it out, 'cause it's really cool.


	10. Not a chapter

Hi. It's been a while, hasn't it? What, I haven't updated since April? May?

I'm sorry, but it's just that I barely have a motive to write a Coco fic, let alone a Vicesto fic anymore. Not to say I've left the fandom, moreso that I have new fandoms now of which I want to focus on writing for. 

That, and... I don't know if I like the way my fics have aged. I still like "would've, should've, could've been" - my favorite one shot to ever write. I still think I started off "for just one yesterday" well, but writing the rest out was hard. It was supposed to basically be Victoria and Ernesto having secret meetings, and side plots being the twins finding love with two show performers while Miguel brought a human girl he had a crush on with him to his land of the dead trips to visit his dead family. However, one day, Ernesto would get out from under the bell and news of that would've broken out and paranoia would've gotten around the land. During Vico's birthday (which Miguel and his gf were at), Ernesto would somehow show up only to get told off by the Villavicencio family (a las leyendas crossover, yes) while other guests went to fetch Héctor, and de la Cruz would leave while later that night, Vico would leave a letter explaining why she goes after him. 

Then it basically turned into a semi batb thing while also having a huge misunderstanding with the Riveras thinking Nesto kidnapped Vico and only Miguel's girlfriend believed that maybe de la Cruz was innocent and blah blah blah insert exploration of LotD politics here

Meanwhile, for this one, it was simple - a roleswap of the movie. Only issue is, I got sidetracked and fell for a new criminally underrated film and otp, so I... moved on.

I'm sorry, but like... my mojo spark for Coco fics has gone out at the moment. Maybe one day, I'll pick this back up but for now, I think it's going on anonymous since I STILL wanna go back and edit maybe, proofread and such. I don't wanna orphan it. I don't wanna give up entirely just yet, so. Yeah, anonymous it goes.

So yeah, that's why I haven't updated. I'm sorry to those who wanted more, but right now I'm burned out as I juggle with writing fics and one shots for my new fandom.

Until then, bye

~ your dear author


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